


Topspin

by lazy_daze



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-24
Updated: 2009-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_daze/pseuds/lazy_daze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Defending Wimbledon champion and world No. 1 tennis player Jensen Ackles is determined to hang on to his title, no matter how good Jared Padalecki, rising star on the tennis scene, thinks he is. With Padalecki's new reckless style, explosive power and natural grace pitted against Jensen's own beautifully strategic, strong and watertight game - all that's for sure is that this is going to be one Wimbledon final match not to be missed. With a media-painted rivalry turning into a mutual dislike that's almost as explosive as the badly-hidden attraction sparking in the air, there's more than a tennis ball flying between them.</p><p>When tension explodes into more, and more becomes again and again, how will this unexpected connection affect them, their games, their careers? Will they be able to put aside everything that's against them and make something real out of what was never meant to happen in the first place? And as emotions get stronger and the competitions fiercer and Wimbledon's upon them again, history will repeat; and under the English July sun, new history will be made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks as always to my darling balefully for the beta, for making this readable and calmly removing the overuse of whatever particular words I get overly attached to at any given time; to elanorelle for the wonderfully helpful and speedy tennis!beta (anything remaining that doesn't ring true is ~~my fault~~ attributed to artistic licence :D); to oxoniensis who, even though this isn't her fandom, as always encourages/coaxes/mercilessly bullies me to keep going and helped me keep it up; to reallycorking for the seriously stunning art!!; and the the wonderful tireless mods at spn_j2_bigbang for making this wonderful challenge a reality.
> 
> [Art post](http://community.livejournal.com/corkart/32401.html) by reallycorking!

Topspin

\--

 _Thwack, thwack, thwack_. The machine shoots out balls in rapid succession, varying spins and angle, and Jared returns them all, finding a sort of peace in the rhythm and swing and the solid connect of the ball with his racket. He grunts slightly with each return.

When he started training in earnest, when he started winning, when he got his own coach and his own training schedule and it all stopped being a hobby and started being his life, he hated the routine training. He wanted to be out facing off with someone over the net, running around the court and stretching to reach that impossible ball, the thrill of seeing it fly back over the net, the buzz of the win. He didn't want to be standing in front of a machine, all predictability and no _motion_ , no interaction, just returning ball after ball all the same.

He's learned to appreciate it, though. This sort of training hones that instinct of _swing, hit, return_ , drilling it in – relentless hours of hitting the ball, learning everything about your own swing, your own body, your own capabilities, so you can surpass all limitations. He’s completely confident in his ability to hit exactly where he wants, when he wants, every single time – because he's done it thousands upon thousands of times before.

Not that he doesn't still get restless, though.

"Jeff!" he yells, still returning the balls with solid, rhythmic _whacks_. "Get your ass out here and give me a real challenge."

Jeff ambles out from the entrance to the changing rooms where he'd been engrossed in a magazine.

"Real challenge? Who's the star slated to shoot to the top and grab the cup next month? I'm not gonna be more of a challenge than that machine there, the way you're headed. Showing me up, boy. The student's starting to teach the master, here."

"Wimbledon, schmimbledon," says Jared, laughing, even as he keeps half an eye on the machine and returns the balls easily, body singing with the steady swing and movement but wanting the stretch of a real human challenge. "C'mon, you coached me! I know you know more than a little something about playing. And you're not a chicken."

"Naw, but being shown up by the skinny kid who used to watch me play like I was God in tennis shorts ain't my idea of a good time." But Jeff's jogging over, racket in hand; he turns the machine off and before Jared can blink after returning the last ball, Jeff's shooting off one of his own lightning-fast serves – the ones he was famous for.

Jared runs backward, balances and pushes at the edge of falling, but twists his shoulder back anyway and wills his body to stay still for that crucial second until he _feels_ the ball connect with the racket, pushes the swing through with his whole body. He falls on his ass, but the ball sails back and Jeff only manages to tap it with the tip of the racket's frame, and it bounces out somewhere into the corner of the court.

Jared lifts his head up and whoops. "Oh _yeah_! I got it, I got it," he says, while Jeff grins and twirls his racket.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm just warming up. You better not be that cocky next week, players like Nadal and Ackles can sniff out weakness in a green kid like police dogs on the trail. Give them even the tiniest advantage and they'll rip that hole big enough the match'll fall right through. You gotta be solid, not only confident." With that, he serves again, solid smack and whoosh.

Jared returns it easier this time and stays balanced on his feet, shifting his weight in a steady rhythm. "I know, Jeff, you've told me a hundred times–"

He pauses to hop over to the left a little to return the ball, he and Jeff settling into a steady rally.

"And I am solid, and I'm not that confident. You know I'm just teasing you. Still keep thinking each match so far has been a fluke. Someone's gonna catch me out, realize I'm nothing but some little boy playing around, nothing really _there_ , you know? Doesn’t matter how much I love the game."

It's probably weird to be pouring his heart out by yelling across a tennis court, pausing every second to grunt and pant and swing, but he and Jeff always have talks like this. It's where Jared feels most free, most himself, most unguarded.

"It's not a fluke, Jared – you got something you don't often see. You got real talent and a whole fresh new way of playing this game. You make me love it all over again just coaching you, and you got it in you to go all the way to the top. You gotta remember that. But you also gotta remember to train, train, eat right, sleep right, train a little more and – oh yeah – listen to me."

Jared grins and pulls his swing, just tapping the ball over the net, and Jeff's miles from it. "When it suits me." He winks, and Jeff throws a tennis ball at him.

  


* * *

"You're up against Grosjean in the first round, so you should be able to clear that easy – he's good, but not that good. Not that I'd expect you to have any trouble that early on, but as I always say–"

"Treat each match like it's the final. Yeah, I know," says Jensen with a half-smile, rolling his racket between his palms. He swings it around a couple of times in an elegant, lazy loop, then bounces it against the heel of his hand until Jim reaches out and grips the top of the racket, stilling it and looking at Jensen.

"Save your energy for the courts, kid."

"Easy for you to say," Jensen grumbles. "Anyway, according to the rumor mills, I'm way past being called a _kid_. Past my prime, yadda yadda." He says it blithely, but Jim knows as well as Jensen himself does: he's worried they're right. That he's been doing it a touch too long to stay at the top much longer. Jim insists it's bullshit, that Jensen's a million years away from over the hill. He immediately lists off handfuls of players who've been playing as long and longer, who disprove Jensen's sullen insistence that he's a step away from the end of his career, but Jensen still worries. There's a slight twinge in his abused knees and wrists as he watches the younger kids leap around the court like it's a freaking moonbounce and wonders how he's still beating them.

Jim lets go of the racket to flick Jensen on the forehead.

"Ow!"

"You know what's more productive than sitting around whining? Getting your ass out to practice to make sure no one's stealing that cup out from under you."

Jensen rolls his eyes but dutifully drags himself out onto his practice court. Niggling as his worries are, he has a much more powerful determination that the tournament he thinks of as _his_ – Wimbledon champion for the past three years – isn't getting snatched out from under his nose by anyone.

His confidence barrels back when he's playing, like it always does – when he's gripping the racket, strong and assured, hitting the ball square on every return and knowing exactly where to send it so his opponent won't _quite_ be able to reach it. Of course, great and trusted a coach as Jim's been to Jensen, he doesn't have the long reach and boundless energy of, say, Padalecki or the smart, unerring aim and dogged stamina of Federer; but Jensen feels buoyed, anyway. He's _good_. He can do this.

\--

Jim cries surrender a while later, collapsing into a heap on a chair in the shade as Jensen's mom comes out with iced tea, which they both gladly drink down. Jim gulps it in one, bitching about Jensen's desire to stay at home in Texas and use his home court to practice on. He pretends that it's because Jensen should be training somewhere cool and rainy to get into the mindset for England next month, but Jensen just grins at him.

"You're just a pussy who can't take the Texas heat like a real man."

"There's not a real man out there who would be genuinely comfortable in this godforsaken heat. You're fucking with me, boy. It's a good thing I like you."

Jensen grins. "Well, I'm glad you do, I gotta say. Anyway, give it two weeks and we'll be in England and you can start bitching about the weather there and wish you were back here."

His mother clucks her tongue. "Careful over there," she says, like she always does.

Jensen grins back, like he always does. "The British aren't actually all savages, you know. Or at least I haven't seen any evidence of it, and I've been there a few more times than you. I think I'll be okay."

She sighs. "You know what I mean. I always worry when you're so far from home."

"You can come with me, you know," he offers tentatively, and immediately regrets it when she glances down at her lap and fiddles with the small hole in her jeans over the knee.

"You know I'm not a good flier, Jensen. I'd love to be there supporting you, you know I would, but it doesn't feel right – without – and someone needs to watch the house, you know? The – the dogs."

He flashes her a sure, easy grin. "Sure, Mom. You can see me pretty good on the television, anyway. I'll email my schedules over soon as I have 'em."

She nods, relieved. "Thank you, darling." She picks up their empty glasses. "I'll take these inside."

Jim sighs once she's disappeared over the lawn to the house. "She's gonna regret not being there later in her life."

Jensen shakes his head. "Give her a break. You know what she's like." Riddled with anxiety since his dad died. Jensen wants his mom there, of course he does, but he honestly can't imagine how she'd deal with a transatlantic flight. Plus, he thinks the regret she'd feel that his dad wasn't next to her to share in the moment, that he never saw his son get there – it would probably be worse than the regret Jim's gloomily predicting. Not fair ether way.

"Cryin' shame," says Jim, shaking his head. "He woulda been so proud. Well, he is proud, of course, but wish he could see you now and tell you so."

"Yeah," says Jensen, rather abruptly. He doesn't mean to be short, but – what else can he say? It sucks, and almost every freaking day he's angry and sad that his dad never got see him get to where his is. After it was his dad's love of the sport and his gentle, playful coaching throughout Jensen's childhood, free of any pressure or agenda, that got him good enough to make it in the first place. Talking about it isn't going to make it less unfair or bring him back or help Jensen _win_ , though; won't help him get that crazy sense of victory that validates all the faith his dad always had in him.

He blows out a breath. "Fuck. Is it stupid to start getting nervous this early, especially when I've done it a bunch of times before?"

Jim grins. "I'd be worried about you if you weren't. Nerves aside, you must be looking forward to it, though."

Jensen can't help but smile. "Yeah." Wimbledon is far and away his favourite of the Grand Slams. It's the one he always wants to win, more than all the others – and getting the cup the past three years hasn't lessened his need. Just made him even more determined to hang on to the title once he's got it. He genuinely likes the trip, too: the place, the people, the atmosphere. The complete _Englishness_ of it, the way the whole country gets swept up in the grip of tennis fever. The way he gets recognised on his touristy trips into London but never feels stalked or annoyed.

He picks up his racket and spins it idly. "Hey, who knows, maybe I'll pick myself up a nice English boyfriend."

Jim pulls the exaggerated 'ugh, gross' face he always does whenever Jensen talks about guys, and Jensen grins brightly at him.

Jim shakes his head. "You think you could handle something that long-distance afterwards, Mr. Falls-head-over heels?"

"I'm way more mature and jaded now," protests Jensen, but he shrugs and smirks. "Maybe I'll just pick myself up a nice English fuck."

Jim makes the face again, and Jensen laughs. He tilts his head back, eyes closed, and drifts in the afternoon warmth for a while, kicking his feet out into where the sun is eating up the shade until they start to get uncomfortably hot. He pulls them in, sits up, and stretches.

Jim's got his head back, mouth open, snoring, and Jensen grins before he kicks lightly at his ankle. "Hey, old man," he says, "one more game to work up a real appetite? Mom said something about steak."

* * *

The air is cool and damp and sweet-smelling, and Jared breathes it in deep, eye closed, grinning. There's a freshness to the world here, washed clean from a rain shower, that's unfamiliar to him; between living in Texas and LA, he's never really felt this light, summery warmth; it's always been so much heavier.

"It smells so – so–"

"British?" says Jeff with a grin, and Jared laughs. They're strolling through the gardens of the Museum of The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club – the Club that hosts the Wimbledon competition.

"If all of Britain smells like this, then sign me up."

"It's not quite as nice in the middle of London, if I recall correctly, but you'll probably be too wide-eyed with touristy awe to notice."

Jared hits him lightly in the arm. "Shut up, I'm allowed to sight-see. This is my first time in England, give me some slack."

"As long as you match tourism time with twice as much training time, you can be as geeky over Big Ben as you want."

Jared sighs and shakes his head. "Taskmaster. You'd think I was here for a competition, or something."

"Smartass. You better start taking this seriously."

"I am. Believe me." And he is – though he's more giddily excited about it all than straight-faced, somber with focus. He'd watched the competitions on television throughout his childhood, and wandering through the museum, he recognized so much, so many people that he'd silently worshipped, and now he's here, _one of them_. There just seems to be something about Wimbledon that's more historical and magical to him than the other competitions. It just – this practically defines tennis. He wants to win – of course he does, he has a competitive streak a mile wide, there's no point into getting into a sport like this seriously if you don't have that thirst to win – but it doesn't eat him up. If he doesn't win – which he honestly doesn't expect to – and even if he gets knocked out in his first round, it's not going to destroy him. It's his first shot of hopefully many, and for now he's content with being here, knowing he worked to get here, that he deserves it, that he's got so much potential still laid out before him.

They wander back into the museum, and Jared looks over the displays of rackets through the ages, tennis clothing; he feels the press of history here, and loves it. He's carrying on a great tradition, one of the chosen few. It's ridiculous, but it makes him smile.

"Come on," says Jeff, "let's go see if we can get a practice court. Need to get reacquainted with the grass. You know how different the bounce can be, especially here, and you've been on too many hard courts lately."

"Yeah, yeah," sighs Jared, and follows him.

\--

He's got a press appointment to get to after a couple hours practicing, so he keeps his tennis gear on, just swapping out the unpleasantly damp sweatbands around his wrists and forehead.

He talks to a perky reporter and gives some nice soundbites – she asks him, as most people do, about his explosion onto the tennis scene, how he went from nobody to bright new star with no hesitation, seeding rocketing up as fast as the system allows it, still winning consistently beyond his seed, skilled across surfaces like few others. He shrugs and smiles and tells her everything just clicked into place – which is true. It was like he got a hold of his talent and his training and how to fit them together, harnessed his energy in all the right ways, worked out how to control himself; it was a potent combination, it seems, given the way he keeps on winning.

And it's true that he has a strong, raw ability, but it bugs the hell out of him when people talk about his 'rise to success' as if it were some phenomenon of talent, like it was easy, like he's riding on some blessing and nothing else. So he smiles at the reporter, of course, but he's irritable afterwards, because damn it, it's been far from easy. It's not like he randomly decided to pick up a racket one day and _bam_ , he's suddenly here. He works hard, always has; he trains and works out and practices and puts all his energy, physical and mental, into this, into the sport he loves. So yeah, it's paying off, and it's paying off well. But it's _not_ easy.

Hardly anyone acknowledges that he's worked for it. Even other tennis players express surprise – mostly good-natured, but still – at his fast and easy rise, and hell, other athletes should damn well know that the more effortless a sportsman looks, the harder he's worked.

He knows it's the public not understanding, and a certain amount of bitterness and jealousy in his fellow sportsmen and women, but it still rankles. And they all say it with a smile, like it's not an insult, and maybe they don't even think it is. No one seems to outright dislike him, which is a relief. He doesn't crave being popular, it's never been about that, he just hates it when someone dislikes him and he doesn't know why. It gets under his skin, and half the time he'll make it worse trying to _get_ them to like him. He supposes he's lucky it doesn't happen too often. He's a pretty inoffensive guy to most people. Maybe if he wasn't, he'd have the guts to damn well correct people when they look at him like he hasn't worked his _ass_ off to get here.

"You gonna eat that pasta or just beat it into submission?"

Jared grins and looks up at Jeff. "Yeah, sorry. Million miles away."

"Million miles and you couldn't find somewhere nice to go? You got a face like thunder, kid. It's not like you."

"I know. I'm just getting fed up with people thinking this is all easy for me."

Jeff nods, eyes softening. "I know. I know they say it and I know better than anyone how patently untrue it is, but you're not gonna be able to change people thinking what they want, especially when you're making a splash. They're going to have opinions about you, and you have to just go with it. You can't search each person out and explain. You're only going to come off defensive if you try. I know, your family knows, _you_ know you deserve this much as anyone, and that's what's got to matter."

Jeff always manages to make him feel better about stuff. "Should I be paying you more to double-up as a shrink as well as a coach?" asks Jared through a mouthful of pasta.

Jeff laughs. "I'm doing alright, Jared. Anyway, let's talk about tennis for a second, because we don't do that enough. Let's talk about whether you think you'll finally be up against Ackles this time."

Jared grins. He still hasn't played Jensen Ackles, the current number one seed and the only other really big American player around right now. Somehow they've missed each other, one or the other getting knocked out from silly mistakes before meeting in a final even though between them they've won, of the Grand Slams, both the US and Australian Opens in the past twelve months, along with a generous handful of other tournaments, much to the disgruntlement of the rest of the world. They're all a little annoyed with America taking the glory. Jared nearly won the French Open, too, but he'd had a slightly sore knee and lost the winning point in a rare moment of sense. He still wonders if he should have gone for the wrenched knee and the trophy. But then, if he had, he might not be here, fully fit and raring to go, so it was probably worth it.

If and when he does get to play against Ackles, it'll be one of his most challenging matches. Not only because Ackles is incredibly good, but also because the guy's got to be worried about Jared sneaking up and taking his top place, so he'll be working extra hard to retain his rank when they finally get to face off.

"God, I hope so," he says, smiling wide. "That's going to be one of the most terrifying matches ever. If I do, I just hope it'll be late enough into the competition to make it _really_ exciting." Ackles is electric to watch, all that tightly controlled power and absolute confidence in his own body; he gives Jared tingles just to watch, so Jared can't imagine how it'll be to really face him across the net, to pit his own talent against Jensen's and just _play_. He has tried to imagine, actually, and it makes him sweaty and excited and maybe a little turned on, which he tries not to examine too closely. He's suddenly nervous. "God, what if I can't do it? What if I'm on the court with him and I freeze up? What if I just keep double-faulting! What if I faint? What if–"

Jeff laughs and throws a napkin at him. "Shut up, you sound like twelve year old girl with a crush."

Jared flushes and throws it back at him. "Do _not_."

Jeff nods agreeably. "Right, right, not at _all_. Finish up – we got time for one more practice game before you gotta be in bed. Food and practice and sleep – you're not allowed to care about anything else until you win."

* * *

Jensen watches the match with narrowed eyes. Padalecki's playing a good game – a fantastic game, if Jensen's truthful, but he's not flawless, even if right now Murray's technically neater technique isn't standing a chance in the face of Padalecki's power and raw grace.

He makes a few notes on the pad of paper he takes to every game he watches – _weaker on the left foot, avoids being close to the net_ – and replays the match in his head, tries to put himself in Murray's place. Padalecki's through to the semi-finals if he wins this, a step closer to the final, and expectation is he'll make it there, or at least close.

Murray loses the next point, and it's a testament to Jared's general popularity that the crowd – Murray's home crowd, of course – doesn't groan, and there's actually an enthusiastic explosion of applause too.

Jensen knows the media are trying to paint some sort of rivalry between himself and Padalecki – Jensen the Golden Kid of American tennis, consistently top; and now Jared Padalecki's crashing through the tournaments with easy smiles and easy wins. Despite the way the two of them have swept through the Grand Slams this year, they haven't played each other yet. They haven't even really interacted, so right now there's nothing to be painted as either rivalry or camaraderie. Just two guys both trying to do their best.

Now they're both at Wimbledon 2009, though, and Jensen watches Jared win the second set with a lazy backhand that looks like he's in the middle of an easy warm-up match. They're in different halves of the draw, so unless they both make it to the final, this'll be another tournament in which they'll miss each other; but the way Jared's playing, and the expectations behind him, it seems it's not without the bounds of possibility they'll be playing each other at the very end of this tournament. For the cup.

He's not sure how he feels about that, about what it'll be like to play Padalecki, especially in the final – Padalecki's good, but so is Jensen, and he has a few years' valuable experience under his belt – which matters when the pressure's on. In a competition as prestigious and fierce as Wimbledon, Jensen privately bets the kid won't be able to hack it – not all the way.

But Padalecki is good, and maybe Jensen's a little worried. And maybe excited to see what he can do.

The sun struggles out from behind the clouds as Jensen watches, though there's still a chill in the air – June in England is unpredictable at best, and it's been unseasonably cold this whole week. Padalecki's gleaming like it's pushing ninety out there, though, raising his hand to his face to blot his damp forehead with his wristband, always followed with a futile flick of the head. He's got floppy hair that kind of annoys Jensen, the back of his neck itching hotly in sympathy. He doesn't know why Padalecki doesn't just get it cut, though the floppy hair and big smile is starting to become a signature look. He keeps it off his face with a white sweatband, but it still sticks to his skin, falls into his eyes. Hence the flick.

Jensen starts irritably as the crowd roars and he realizes he was too busy thinking about Padalecki's hair to realise the kid just smashed through the third set to win with barely a lost point.

Through to the semis, then, and if Jared carries on this well, Jensen has a sneaking suspicion they might see each other in the final. It would be fitting for them to first play each other there.

He hurries from his seat towards the locker rooms, waiting in the entrance for Jared to finish shaking Murray's hand and chatting to a couple reporters. They've barely even spoken before, no real opportunity to, so he may as well take this one. He still doesn't know how he feels about Padalecki, hasn't got a handle on him at all, and he always likes to play someone knowing the kind of person they are. Jim tells him psychology is half the game and that getting it right can tip a lose to a win, and Jensen agrees – the right look, the right show of confidence, and you can tear enough little holes in your opponent's game to push right through and win that crucial point. And if Jensen's anything, it's thorough, in every aspect of the game.

He watches Jared talk to a pretty redhead reporter, watches him laugh, throwing his head back. He's seriously tall, with long limbs and a lot of power, and from what little Jensen knows of him, he's as exuberant and unpredictable in his life as he is in the game. Never does anything quite the way it _should_ be done, and somehow it works every single time.

His neck is long and graceful, and for all the raw energy and power that bursts out of him, that's what Padalecki undoubtedly is – graceful, in some unconscious, easy way that speaks of true talent. Jensen's always found that sexy. True comfort and confidence in your own body draws him in – most of his boyfriends and almost all his random fucks have also been athletes. Which could have something to do with the circles he moves in, but there's definitely something about a guy who knows exactly how to use his body, making a living from knowing what it can and can't do and how best to do it – something Jensen finds it very difficult to say _no_ to.

Not, of course, that that's of any real relevance when it comes to Padalecki – the kid screams straight, all-American, good boy next door, all good ol' Texan drawl and impeccable manners and charm. Not to mention that sleeping with other big players is a little close to home, even if Jensen is familiar with the slight awkwardness that comes from playing against someone whose cock was in your ass the night before – and, he's a little ashamed to admit even to himself, how to use that awkwardness to his advantage.

He shakes his head disbelievingly at how he's getting just a little bit ahead of himself. He needs to get laid.

\--

He waits inside the player's complex for Jared to come in on his way to the showers a little later and stops him with a hand to his shoulder when Jared walks by.

"Hey," he says.

Jared looks over with surprise at first, then his face changes as he recognizes Jensen – into even more surprise, then a wide happy smile. "Wow, hi! I, uh. Hi! Jensen Ackles."

Jensen smiles wryly. "That's me. Thought I'd try and take the chance to finally talk with you – seems stupid we haven't so far, you know?"

Jared nods, and grins even wider, and Jensen blinks slightly. Christ, that smile is dizzying when it's directed all at him. He looks away, feeling overwhelmed.

Jared doesn't seem to notice as he sticks out his hand. "Jared. Jared Padalecki."

"Yeah, I got that." He shakes Jared's hand carefully, surprised at how his own broad hand feels swallowed in Jared's massive palm.

Jared laughs. "Yeah, sorry, I – anyway, yeah! Definitely, we should have a talk. It's so, so awesome to meet you. It's just been so crazy this year, I feel like I've hardly had a chance to breathe, let alone try and meet everyone I want to. And I'm sorta – in awe of you, man, you know? I think you're incredible, so. It's an honor to talk to you and I really hope we get to play each other soon. It's crazy we haven't!"

Jensen raises his eyebrows and makes himself look back at Jared, searching his face. He's instantly on his guard – he can't really help it, and Jared seems genuine enough, if very enthusiastic. But people aren't always what they seem, and Jensen's careful when people gush at him because it generally means they want something. Jared doesn't seem to be angling for anything in particular, though, and Jensen's a little – disarmed, more than charmed. He's not sure why he's surprised, as this is exactly how the guy is in interviews, but public personas aren't always the real deal. And he doesn't get quite why Jared's treating him this way anyway – he'd been expecting a little more reservation. He should be treating him like – like a rival, not a rockstar.

He responds slowly and cautiously, not sure how to tread. "I – yeah." Jared's smile has already dimmed a little at the pause, and Jensen clears his throat awkwardly. "Well – thanks. I, you know, admire you too. I was watching your match. You're good, Jared. You have an ease to your game that's pretty rare." Which is true – he's all power and movement on the court but nothing seems too hard – it all seems to click into place, and he lopes around the court able to easily stretch the right amount to not only return the balls but to set up a shot that'll twist the other player out of their comfortable position, have _them_ running and stretching and often missing.

Jared's smile just dims further until it's gone entirely. Jensen feels abruptly wrongfooted. He reminds himself that this is why he rarely seeks out other players just for socializing – he's not all that good at it.

"Ease, right," says Jared, and he looks annoyed now, weird one-eighty flip from his grinning charm of a few moments ago. "Yeah, you're right. It's all _so_ easy for me. Might as well have not worked for it at all. It's not like I practice or train my ass off. Not like I spend just as many hours as every other player here working as hard as I can, or more – nah, it's just _easy_ for me."

Jensen blinks, not entirely sure what the fuck he said wrong. He'd been trying to compliment Jared and get to know him, but clearly that was a bad idea. This kid's just that – an oversensitive kid who's all smiles until you say something wrong without even fucking knowing it. He knew the charming, bouncy exterior couldn't be genuine – no one's that damn happy. He only wants to be liked, all childish and pathetic.

Jared's mouth is tight – nearly pouting – and he looks inexplicably hurt. _That's not what I meant,_ is on the tip of Jensen's tongue, but he swallows it, instead scowls and bites out, "Sorry to have interrupted your day. Good luck in the rest of the competition." Jared scrubs a hand through his hair and frowns, opens his mouth, but Jensen isn't interested.

He walks back into the sunlight to find Jim. Or even an empty court and a basket of balls. Fuck, he needs to practice. And there's no way he's going to let there be the slightest chance of Padalecki – immature, fake, weirdo _dick_ – besting him in this competition. No _fucking_ way.

* * *

Jensen's storming off before Jared can apologize for overreacting to what was obviously intended to be a compliment. "Fuck," he says, dropping his hand, then " _fuck_!" more angrily. He takes a step to go after Jensen, then stops and frowns. Why should he apologize when Jensen wouldn't even give him a second to explain? Jensen was cold from the beginning, even if he did make the first move; he probably decided he wasn't going to like Jared, fucking jealous of how _easy_ it apparently is for him, and was just happy that Jared gave him validation, a reason to dislike him. Fuck!

He strips off his clothes angrily and for once the thrumming of warm water against his shoulders isn't relaxing. He's still irritated about Jensen – disappointed and angry. He'd really wanted to meet him, talk to him – they had a lot in common. He could pick the guy's brains for hours, thought maybe they could've even been friends – but no. As if Jared would want to be friends with someone that uptight and arrogant and unfriendly. Like he expects everyone to treat him like some kind of god just because of his seed.

Jared runs a hand through his hair. When he finally does meet Jensen in a match – and it has to be soon – he's fucking _going_ to win. Serve him fucking right. No pun intended.

\--

Two days later, he watches Jensen's semi-final on the screens in the room back where he's slowly warming up for his own, which'll be right after. It becomes clear Jensen's going to win in straight sets, so there are two outcomes here. Either Jared loses his own semi-final afterwards, and Jensen will almost certainly go on to win the final for a fourth time in a row, or Jared wins his semi-final. In the final, right there on Centre Court, he'll face Jensen across the net, the trophy hanging in the balance.

All of which means there is pretty much _no_ way Jared is letting himself lose his semi. He's up against Djokovic, but if you ask Jared, guy's losing his edge anyway. Jared, though, has one hell of a fucking edge on this. He doesn't know why it's so important to him – he should want to get through to the final so he's _in the final of Wimbledon_ , his whole reason for being here in the first place, but the shape his thoughts take belies where his true obsession's shifting over to. It's not the cup in his sights, it's beating Jensen.

He sighs. As long as he's in the match, it doesn't matter his motivation, right?

Jensen's closing down the third set now with fierce determination, and his game is still fantastic to watch even through the screens, and Jared wishes he could be out there watching courtside. It sends tingles down Jared's spine even though he can't help but scowl and tense up in irritation when he looks at Jensen's face: that smooth, expressionless focus, the way his lips curl and brows furrow when he returns the ball hard.

Jared's halfway through congratulating himself on putting personal feelings aside to admire a player and his game, be in awe of Jensen's skill and able to recognize pure good tennis, when he gets distracted. Jensen's rushing to the side of the court and returning a ball Del Potro clearly didn't think he would. He smashes the ball using a powerful two-handed forehand with a low, growling _unf_ sound. The tingles shiver down Jared's spine again. Jensen rolls his shoulders, and swings back into a light, balanced stance as Del Potro prepares to serve – a break point, game point, set point and in fact match point for Jensen, so Del Potro must be nervous. Jared isn't really paying attention to him, though. He's looking only at Jensen, at the slight smoothing of his brow when he must realize he's got this, at the grip of his fingers around the racket, the bend of his legs and strength of his broad shoulders – and Jesus _Christ_ Jared's a fucking idiot, because he's hard, cock an urgent straining weight in his shorts and he hadn't even known how fucking attracted he is to Jensen until right now.

Oh, _Christ_.

His first instinct is to run over and switch off the screens, hide himself away, maybe run and hide completely, but he's got his own match soon – and he's still enthralled by the game. He slides into a quad stretch, tries to focus on getting himself ready, except it's pretty much the only thing he _can_ think about. It's not only that Jensen's a guy – it's not the first time Jared's appreciated the male form, though it was always sort of detached, not personal, not anything significant, and before it was mainly easy to pass it off as a sort of deep admiration. This, though – there's pretty much no denying that pull of _want_.

But Jared could probably deal with a gay crisis better if it weren't fucking _Jensen Ackles_. The guy's a dick and he hates Jared and he's his biggest rival in this competition, in the tennis world. He's a fellow player Jared's going to have to keep competing against – and all of these things add up to equal _bad idea_.

Jensen stretches to return, shirt flashing up to show toned stomach, and Jared closes his eyes as the crowd roars, tinny from the television, and the umpire intones, " _Game, set, match, Ackles_."

This isn't a big deal. It's just physical appreciation. It doesn't need to mean – it _doesn't_ mean anything. He should use it, even. Should let it sharpen his rivalry, let it flavor his dislike and make his motivation and determination stronger. As long as he doesn't let it distract him, it's fine. It's _fine_. So Jensen's hot. Jared's probably far from the only one here, male or female, who looks a little too long. It's fine.

\--

Of course, the heavens open not ten minutes after Jensen's match, in the middle of the court being prepared for Jared's match and the umpires switching over. There's a few minutes of indecision before they decide the rain isn't going to let up and then there's a hurry and bustle to cover the court, and Jared's left with at least a couple hours in front of him and a whole lot of adrenaline and nerves with no outlet.

He goes for a run, knows he shouldn't exert himself before a match in case the unthinkable happens and he injures himself in these last moments, but he can't stay still, he _can't_. It's still raining heavily, but he likes it – it's calming, and it means everywhere outside is mostly deserted.

It's a fat, heavy rain and he's pretty soaked by the time he angles back towards the players' complex to get a shower. He stops abruptly as he sees Jensen leaning against the unsheltered wall next to the entrance, head back and eyes closed as the rain wets his face.

He stands and looks at Jensen for a moment, how the rain darkens his hair back down against his head, thickens his ridiculous eyelashes; it makes his skin look pale and his lips look a shocking red. When he opens his eyes, the green takes Jared by surprise.

Jared swallows and runs a hand through his own wet hair. His t-shirt's sticking damply to his skin all over, and he can see Jensen's is, too – see it cling to his shoulders, chest, can see the muscle definition, imagines how the ridges under smooth skin might feel under his fingers. He shakes his head and looks back up at Jensen's stare; that slightly raised eyebrow. He might as well be saying, _What the fuck do you want_? Jared feels a weird mix of desire and dislike shiver through him. Jensen probably knows exactly what he looks like. Hell, he probably even knows what Jared's feeling. Jared's not going to give him any more ammunition if he can help it.

He tries to keep his face impassive. "Good game," he offers. No point in not being civil, right?

Jensen just looks at him, then tracks his eyes down Jared's body and away, jaw tightening. Probably wondering why Jared's being an idiot and running in the rain.

"Yeah," he says, not looking at Jared. Then he does look back, eyebrow quirked. "Good luck in yours," he says, and somehow it feels like an insult rather than anything genuine, though Jared can't even put his finger on why. Maybe it's the smooth, practiced way Jensen delivers it. Maybe it's the thrumming current of irritation under Jared's skin coloring everything, or maybe it's his hyper-awareness of the open neck of Jensen's shirt and the pale wet skin there, the shape of his bicep under the clinging dampness. And now he's just as irritated at himself.

"Thanks," he says, anyway. "Could be seeing you in the final soon."

Jensen looks away from him again. "Pretty sure of yourself."

Jared makes an annoyed noise in his throat. "That's not what – whatever. You're so intent on having a bad impression of me, without even giving me a chance, fine. Let me just tell you I have an equally bad one of you, if you can't even pretend to be civil."

Jensen looks back at him again, and this time he looks pissed instead of infuriatingly impassive. "And why the fuck should I care what impression you have of me? And why do _you_ care? We don't need to like each other in order to play tennis, whether we'll be playing each other soon or not."

"And yet you're the one who came to talk to me!"

"Which was clearly a mistake. Look, just leave me alone and go try and charm someone else who'll be taken in by it." They've stepped closer to each other, and with that Jensen takes a step back as if to turn and leave, eyes dropping again and jaw tightening.

Jared bristles, and takes a step back in towards Jensen, not really knowing what he means to do or say, but he's so fucking _pissed_. Jensen frowns and takes another step back, but he bumps up against the wall.

Jared takes another step in before he notices how close they are, and there's a silent, weird moment where his heart is beating fast in his chest. Jensen's eyes are wide and green and fixed right on him, and Jared tracks a raindrop that slips down past Jensen' eyebrow, down his jaw, rolls over the slope of his neck, before he looks back at Jensen's eyes, still caught on his. But then Jensen blinks and pushes at Jared's chest. "I _said_ , leave me the fuck alone," he snaps. "What, you gonna start a fight right here? Grow _up_."

Jared stumbles back quickly at that, because – well, because fighting hadn't been on his mind. Just – shutting Jensen up. Somehow. Fuck, he probably _would_ have ended up getting punched, fucking _stupid_. The rain's still falling, cool on his flushed skin, but it's lighter now, trailing off, and Jared will have to play in the not-too-distant future.

He narrows his eyes at Jensen. "Fine," he spits, and stalks into the building towards the showers, hands clenched into angry fists – partly because he _is_ angry, but partly to hide the fine trembling. He doesn't even know what the fuck he was thinking, but he does know it has adrenaline racing shaky through him.

He's still shivering as he strips to get into the shower, now from the cold after standing still in the fucking rain. Early July in Britain doesn't mean shit, it's still cold when it rains, and Jared has been out in it. He needs to get warm and then dry before he comes down with something; that'd be the last damn thing he needs. Not to mention he didn't cool down from his run, didn't stretch; he's gonna have to do a careful and thorough stretch and warm-up before he heads back out for his match. He would say he didn't know why he let himself just stand there in the cold and damp, but he does – he was fucking distracted by Jensen, by this annoying pull he feels towards him.

As he soaps up, he wonders why Jensen had been standing there out in the rain. He tells himself out loud that it doesn't matter, shouldn't matter; he should forget it. The sound of his own voice bouncing off the tile walls makes him feel idiotic enough that he almost takes his own advice and pushes Jensen entirely from his mind. Almost.

* * *

Jensen walks though the rain just to get to the shower rooms over at a different complex so he won't bump into Jared. Son of a bitch. His heart is beating uncomfortably fast, still, and he's angry, lit up under his skin with it. How dare the kid just push into his personal space like that, as if he wanted to turn a stupid little verbal pissing contest into something physical? Like they aren't both rational adults. Jared probably doesn't know how much Jensen hates it when people get that far into his personal space, but it's not polite to do that to anyone, let alone someone you've previously established mutual dislike with. He shivers. People up in his face is never going to be something he's happy with.

And yet there's that stupid – fucking _stupid_ – little part of himself that's saying, _Yeah, but you didn't hate it_. Because Jared is big and solid and powerful and exciting, and when he was all up close to Jensen, he'd half wanted to just draw him in all the way, feel that power and hard muscles pressed all up against himself, see what their bodies could do–

He stops walking and turns his face up into the rain, eyes closed. "Fuck," he says, rainwater cool on his lips and in his mouth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Aesthetic appreciation is one thing – which he's quite happy with. He was fine with detachedly appreciating how Jared looked in gray jogging pants and a wet, clinging black t-shirt. He looked good in black. It made his tan skin glow and his eyes look bright. Of course he looked good in white, too, in the Wimbledon tradition of all-white tennis gear – bright against his smooth brown skin, the gleaming expanse of his muscled arms, accented with the white bands around his wrists and the one keeping his hair back; he looked good with his hair off his face, his skin smooth and eyebrows strangely pretty for a guy – and anyway, yeah. Aesthetic appreciation, a-okay.

But Jensen's breathing was picking up just remembering Jared so close to him, that intense look in his eyes, the way his gaze tracked down Jensen's face, the sheer size of him so close, the strange fragility of his eyelashes and the pinkness of his mouth. He wanted to taste, and wanted to _fuck_ , and – Jensen's an idiot. This isn't going to make things easier, because he hates Jared, and Jared hates him, and that would be enough to cut this off before it started even if Jared weren't pretty clearly straight. Jensen doesn't mind fucking people he doesn't have an emotional connection with but he's not masochistic enough for the mindfuck that would follow where the negative emotional connection of strong _dislike_ gets mixed with the intimacy and vulnerability of sex. Jared already gets under his skin more than he should.

He drops his head back down and rubs the rainwater from his eyes before he opens them, and carries on walking. So he has a fucked-up sort of crush. Give it a couple days and he'll get over it, as long as he doesn't do anything stupid. Not a big deal. He can't afford the distraction, not when he'll be facing Jared in the final in a few days; his taunts aside, he's almost a hundred percent sure he will be. Ignoring his feelings about Jared, the whole complicated mess of them, he's looking forward to that game. It's going to be something.

The rain's letting up, now. One of the short and sweet showers that keep bursting through, just enough to screw up the schedules for a couple hours; just enough to send Jared out here, getting in Jensen's way, messing with his head.

He shivers slightly, because it's not warm rain, and he needs to get inside, but he slows his steps anyway to get the last of it. He loves being out in rainstorms, always has, and when he saw the grey skies get suddenly darker, he headed outside. He'd been feeling stifled and stressed anyway, pressure getting to him as it does sometimes, and it made him feel better, being in the rain. He and his dad would always run outside in the thick summer thunderstorms at home and let themselves get soaking wet, running around and laughing like fools – it's not the same here. The rain's cooler and the air smells so very different to the hot, wet Texas summer, but he still likes it. There's something calming about just standing outside and letting nature wash you down.

\--

He settles in early to get a good seat for Jared's semi. He has a great view of the court, but he's not front and center courtside. Jared looks impassive and focused when he comes out, and the crowd swells with applause – Jared's become a favorite all over. Normally at this point he's be smiling, waving to the crowd, but he's quieter this time, just sitting with a towel over his legs, intently testing the strings of his racket.

It's time, and Jensen's bizarrely nervous. He looks at the other player critically. Djokovic's not quite as good as Jared, so Jensen's pretty sure Jared's going to win; he can't even pretend to himself that he doesn't _want_ Jared to win. He seriously wants to play him. See if he can stand up to the hype. See just what Jared can do. He jiggles his knees, then stops with a frown.

Jared steps up, takes a deep breath, and rubs a hand over his face. He turns to the crowd, smiles wide, and they cheer at this flash of the Jared they're used to. He waves and grins and nods thank-yous to the cries of well-wishing, and is Jensen the only one who can see how fake it is? He's seen Jared do this before, and it's always been genuine, like he's really enjoying it, really happy, really thankful. Right now, though? His head is clearly in the game. It's five shots ahead, not facing the audience with a wide smile.

The first game starts.

Jensen knew Jared was good, was pretty sure he was going to win, but – even he's surprised. Jared's playing with a ferocity Jensen hasn't really seen in his games before. It's like he's stepped up into a higher gear. He's still got an incredible grace to him and that characteristic uncanny ability to be right where he needs to be, sending the balls right where the other player can't quite reach them, but some of the languid laziness Jensen noted in earlier matches is gone. He has a determination to win that's a little scary and, fine, a little – a lot – enthralling to watch.

The hair rises up on the back of Jensen's neck a little, a sudden prickle, as Jared doesn't give an _inch_ , barely concedes a point.

It's over in three short, straight sets, and Jensen blinks when he realizes how much tennis has flown by; he'd been half-hypnotized watching Jared systematically destroy Djokovic's game.

The umpire announces the win, sounding almost taken aback – it's one of the fastest matches in the tournament, which is saying something, considering it's not an unevenly-matched first-round game, it's a freaking semi-final. People are going to be weighing up the odds of him versus Jared in the final right now, and after that little display? There's no guarantee Jensen will be the favorite.

Jensen shrugs a little. He was expecting to play Jared in the final anyway, and the kid was always going to give a good game. There was nothing there Jensen couldn't handle. Nothing new. He's better than Djokovic, too.

Jared smiles and drops his shoulders, shakes Djokovic's hand warmly, but the look on his face is more relieved than ecstatic. Like winning the Wimbledon semi-finals in his first proper shot at the competition wasn't his goal, not worthy of celebration in its own right; like he was just pushing through to make sure he'd be playing Jensen.

Jared glances over at the stands, and his gaze lands unerringly on Jensen even though Jensen's sitting unobtrusively to the side. He catches his breath, and it can't be more than a second their eyes meet but it feels long and intense, and Jensen's trying not to go red or feel flustered. Ridiculous. He sets his jaw and Jared looks away, eyes sweeping casually over the rest of the crowd, then he's punching the air, looking happy, like he's supposed to.

Jensen swallows and forces himself to get a fucking grip. How the hell is he supposed to face Jared across the court in two days if a mere glance is getting him worked up? He's _not_ going to let this mess up his chances. Not going to let this snot-nosed brat who thinks the sun shines out of his own ass take Jensen's title away from him.

He looks back at Jared and focuses on thinking about his technique, his weaknesses, how he's going to beat him, until he can feel his confidence swell back up and he's not quite so distracted.

 _I'll see you on the court,_ he thinks, and grins.

* * *

"Fuck," says Jared.

"Yeah," says Jeff.

" _Fuck_."

" _Yeah_."

They look at each other for a long moment.

"So," says Jared eventually, "we made it. Wimbledon final. Here we come."

Jeff nods, then reaches over to put his hand on Jared's incessantly moving leg. "Calm down before you give yourself a heart attack or pull something. This is big, but it's not the first Grand Slam final you've been in. Or won," he adds meaningfully.

Jared blows out a breath and stands up, spinning his racket in his hands, and paces aimlessly around the room they're waiting in before they go out to the court. His first match on Centre Court. The one he's watched so many on. Jesus.

"Yeah," he says, "I know. But – Wimbledon! And Jensen Ackles!"

"I know, and I know. But you can do this. You can win this, you can beat him. I'm not saying it'll be easy, because he's _good_. He's seriously good, and this'll be our biggest challenge yet. You give him an inch and he'll run that mile all the way to the trophy – but you _can_ do it. Stay focused, but don't overthink it, because your instinct in this game is your biggest weapon. And as I've told you before – and like what we saw happen in New York last year in the first damn round – if you think about that instinct too much you screw it up."

"You saying I'm a big dumb jock who don't need to use his brain?" Jared says with a grin, but Jeff just looks at him. Jared drops the smile and nods, spins his racket nervously again. "Right. Final. Centre Court, eyes of the world, Jensen Ackles. Focus. Instinct. Got it."

Jeff stands up. "I don't need to say make me proud, or make your family proud, because you've already more than done that whatever happens today."

Jared rolls his eyes, but a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Jeff puts a warm, firm hand on his shoulder. "And that's all the pep talk you're getting, Jared. Good luck."

Jared grins at him, and nods. "Thanks."

Jeff leaves, then, gives Jared these last few moments alone to prepare – time a lot of players take to do last minute rituals, a prayer, or whatever. Jared doesn't really have any of that. No lucky socks, no God to trust in beyond a vague impersonal sense he has from Sunday School; no turn-around-three-times-and-kiss-a-tennis-ball – he has no superstitions about this. It just – is. It's just himself. A couple of minutes before each match, he makes sure he's alone and quiet and he closes his eyes, breathes deep, and calms his mind. Lets his thoughts drift onto whatever aspect about the particular match – the title, the tournament, the prize money, the rankings, his opponent – his subconscious latches onto; it's always the thing that gives him the best motivation.

It's no surprise when Jensen Ackles's face fills his mind.

 _Why do I have to hate you? Why do you have to be a dick? Why can't I just be happy that I'm playing you because you're you, the top seed, the best player I'll ever face?_

He sighs and answers himself. _Because sometimes people aren't what you expect. Because life doesn't fit your pre-planned paths. Because it doesn't fucking matter why you want to beat the guy, as long as you do. As long as you play your best game. Forget the person behind the racket and_ play.

He can't entirely, though. He can't see _just a player_. He sees green eyes staring infuriatingly at him, sinful mouth pulled into a sneer, a face he wants to touch and maybe hit. Get some kind of reaction from. But that's okay, it doesn't change the game. He's going to play, and he's going to play well, and Jensen won't know what he's up against.

He stands, and walks out onto the court.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Topspin

The cheers are overwhelming. The crowd's uncharacteristically excitable and Jared supposes it's the media hype around the match: these two rivals, these two tennis greats fighting for the title, finally pitched against each other. It's by far the biggest crowd he's faced in this competition so far, maybe the biggest crowd he's ever faced, because Wimbledon always gains that little extra publicity. The stands are massively bigger in Centre Court than the others, of course, and he stands there looking around at the huge green expanse of the grass court, the worn patches by the baselines, the sea of faces watching and shouting for him. He thinks of the times he's imagined this, of the money these people have paid for a ticket just to come watch him. Of the thousands of eyes glued to television sets across the world. It's amazing. He waves and blows kisses, smiles until his face aches, and it feels good – _he_ feels good. Strong and confident and proud and happy.

England has finally, sullenly given itself over to summer; it's hot, really hot, for once – nowhere near Texas-hot, of course, but Jared had gotten used to the coolness of the air such that it's almost a surprise to feel heat against his skin. The bright yellow sun pours shining over everything and he feels sweat prickling lightly between his shoulder blades as he sits in his courtside chair in the full glare of the sun. He's going to be drenched by the end of the match. His heart jumps in his chest as he thinks about that – _the end of the match_. When he'll know the outcome.

Jensen walks out next, and the cheers of the crowd swell again. Jared's eyes fix on him right away. Jensen smiles tightly and waves quickly at the stands, then looks back down, and Jared resists the urge to roll his eyes. Arrogant son of a bitch – would it kill him to show even a little gratitude and enthusiasm?

Jared's aware of Jensen in some crazy, immediate way, lighting up with nerves and reluctant desire and that urge for competition as Jensen gets closer to him. Their eyes meet for a strange, electric second before Jensen sits down, testing and tightening his racket, fingers strong and sure on the strings. Jared watches him out of the corner of his eye and Jensen glances up to meet his gaze again; his face is impassive but for a nearly imperceptible little sneer, and Jared tightens his jaw and looks away. He won't let Jensen bring him down, dim this giddiness he's riding; he's waiting to play, now, to get out there, to show what he can do.

The start of the match is announced, the crowd quiets, and Jared makes his way to the baseline. Jared Padalecki v Jensen Ackles is stark on the scoreboard, yellow on green, blank and full of potential.

His heart thuds in his chest and he meets Jensen's eyes across the court. They're not impassive any more – for a second, they're _blazing_ , and Jensen's gaze abruptly feels hotter than the sun pouring over Jared. His breath hitches, and heat flushes down his neck, pooling pleasantly low in his belly. He doesn't even know what that was, what Jensen meant by the look. Probably not what Jared felt from it – that crackling-hot flush of _want_ – but it was emotion, and Jared is viciously pleased to tug that from Jensen. Whatever it was, the air's sparking with the tension.

The crowd seems to know it, too. They fall silent, the world holding its breath as Jensen pulls a ball from his pocket – bounces it once, twice.

He serves fast and hard, and the game is on.

Jared's breathing hard right away, putting his all in his returns, but he's not tired. Probably won't ever get tired. He's hopped up, like he can go for hours and hours with no break. As they fight tooth and nail for each point, it's looking as though the match might go on that long.

He's watched Jensen's matches, studied them, but it's so different to be playing him, facing those deadly serves and sneaky spins. Jared can give as good as he's getting and goes for Jensen's weak points as surely as Jensen's trying to attack his.

Jensen keeps tapping drop shots over the net because Jared tends to prefer longer, distant rallies from behind the baseline. Jared sees his tells, running forward before he's even really conscious of what Jensen's going for, and it's clearly frustrating Jensen. They don't stay in rallies for long, none of those easier lulls near the beginning of points mid-game; instead, each shot is calculated and difficult. Jensen wins a few points with a drop shot and follow-up lob combination; Jared claws them back easy with some hard spinning balls that take Jensen by surprise and land out when he manages to return them. He catches Jensen by hitting long shots perfectly judged so they land skimming the corner of the white lines when they look like they're sailing out; Jensen gets Jared running from corner to corner with perfectly angled deep shots and however good Jared's reach, after two or three leaps across the court, he can't keep it up.

It's hard and frustrating and Jared's loving every damn second of it.

Jared – barely – wins the first set. Each game drags on to an ever-changing deuce advantage, and the set goes to an agonising tiebreak – it looks like pushing it all the way to the goddamn wire is going to be the theme of the whole match. The crowd's loud and totally engaged with each point, groaning and shouting and cheering and taking a good long few seconds to settle into silence for each serve. The atmosphere amps up Jared's energy until he feels like shouting and whooping and jumping around, though Jensen's got him doing enough leaping.

He takes the tiny break between sets to flop down in the chair, change his damp sweat bands and chug some water, then wet a little over the back of his hot neck. Jensen's at his chair and when Jared glances over, he's intent on his racket, so Jared lets himself look for a few lingering seconds. Jensen's in a plain white well-fitted Nike polo, neck gleaming in the space of his open collar. The sleeves pull slightly over his biceps as he reaches a hand up to his face, blots his wristband against his damp forehead. His eyes are closed, his mouth soft and open for a second.

His white shorts fall lightly over his thick, strong thighs, and Jared gets a flash of what they might feel like under his palms, pressed against him. He gets a shiver deep in his belly and can't push the thought away. Light blond hairs glint in the sunlight over the curve of Jensen's calves.

He looks up, and Jensen's watching him. Their eyes catch. Jensen blinks, slow sweep of those eyelashes, then he tilts his head, quirking his eyebrows. _Think you're ready for more, kid?_

Jared tightens his jaw and pushes his chin out. _Fuckin' betcha._

Then Jensen's standing up to carefully stretch out his shoulders, and Jared's catching Jeff's eye up in the box for silent encouragement, and they're both heading towards their baselines. The next set is on.

They walk back to their places – Jared's at the other end, this time. The way the sun falls picks out golden highlights in Jensen's hair that Jared won't let himself look at.

He takes a ball from his pocket, bounces it a couple times. It doesn't feel exactly right – he bounces it over to a ball boy who scuttles out to retrieve it, and catches another thrown to him from the other direction. He nods, pockets the next one that follows, and bounces this one. Yeah. This'll do.

He looks up at Jensen, takes a breath, and gets ready to play again.

He throws the ball up into the air, momentarily overwhelmed by the spread of shocking blue sky above him, then all his focus zooms back in on that tiny yellow ball hanging in the air above him. He loves this moment, more than any other, where time stills and he feels like the world is taking a breath with him–

–then he explodes into motion, his body tensing and uncurling, arm flying out strong and sure, following through the motion – and the ball slams across the net. It's a good serve. Jensen barely has time to react before it's going past him. It's a good sign, starting this set with an ace.

The rest of the set doesn't come so easy, though. Jensen works Jared hard, and Jared goes a little wild, feet often leaving the ground as he strives to return each ball, even the lobs that look impossible. Jared knows how to use his height, though. He gets in some smashes, even slam-dunks a few, feeling very Sampras. But Jensen returns at least half of them, and no point is easy. Jared's _still_ loving every fucking second.

Jensen's eyes are intense on the ball, on Jared, and he moves his body with an incredible confidence that's _so_ good to watch. Really good games always give Jared a slight buzz, the adrenaline and excitement fizzing together with accomplishment when he's doing well. He gets a tingling all-over good feeling a little like being horny, so the elation of this game added to how Jensen _looks_ , just out of reach, has Jared biting his lip. His cock's a pleasant, heavy weight caught in his briefs – not enough to distract, just a low, pulsing awareness of his own physicality; of Jensen's.

He's a game behind in the set, but it doesn't matter; he knows he's playing his best. He was playing well against Djokovic – and he's even better now. It's a giddy, satisfying feeling to be playing better than he ever has before. He's steady and smart and skilled and _good_ – and Jensen's matching him shot for shot. He's as good, maybe better, and Jared doesn't know if he can win this or not – but he's happy. He's lost in the thrill of the game, of playing Jensen, of challenging him and being challenged, matched like he's never felt in a game before, and it's good. It's so good, and his eyes sting with sweat and his arms ache hotly and his left knee is starting to twinge and he never wants this match to end.

* * *

Jensen wipes his face and takes a long pull from his energy drink. Two sets in, one victory each, and already they've been playing longer than Jared's semi-final was, each point long and fought for. It feels like the match might never end, and despite the threatening exhaustion, the tired pull in his muscles, he's glad. He doesn't _want_ this to end. He's never played like this, never seen Jared play like this before, and it's thrilling him at the same time it's frustrating him to all hell. He's never played this hard and this well and _struggled_ so much before; he's fighting to stay up there. He wants to see smugness on Jared's face, or some kind of open hostility, something so he can channel his restless energy into hate – but Jared's focused and good and clearly enjoying this as much as Jensen is.

They slam into the third set with barely a breather; the rests don't really help anyway. He just wants to get in there, keep going, _win_ this thing.

He should get some sort of consolation prize if he does lose this, because the fact he's gone this long and played this well with the fucking ridiculous distraction that Jared embodies – well, he deserves something. Jared's wearing a loose sleeveless shirt with dark blue accents, making his tan pop; his shoulders look _impossible_ , a wide expanse that begs to have a palm smoothed over it; his bare arms are rippling curves of muscle, shining with exertion, shifting deliciously under the skin with each movement. His hands are huge without looking coarse – his long fingers curl elegantly around his racket, and he palms three tennis balls easily. Jensen pushes his mind away from imagining Jared's hands – god. Not the fucking time.

Jared's all contained power and glorious masculine physicality, and he's enthralling to watch. It's all Jensen can do to keep his eye on the tennis ball and not on the man smashing it across the court towards him. To remind himself what the goddamn point of this game is.

Jensen wins two games in a row, breaks Jared's serve, and just as he gets a glimmer of hope that he _has_ this, he can win it, Jared breaks him right back. Jensen tips back to that wild uncertainty – he wants to win more than pretty much anything, but he couldn't put a penny on saying whether he actually will. That's terrifying in some new sort of way he hasn't felt before. If he loses – if he loses, it won't only be losing the cup he'll have to deal with. It'll be the fact he lost out to this burning rivalry; it'll be the fact he'll have to face up to the actualisation of those niggling fears that he's on his way out. That Padalecki's the new star, the one to rave about, and Jensen will be left getting older and forgotten in the dust.

So there's a lot at stake here, to put it fucking lightly. He breaks Jared's serve again and keeps his own and wins the third set, but the butterflies churning in his belly barely quiet.

Jared takes his shirt off briefly before they start the next set, splashes water over the back of his neck, and Jensen tries not to look, but for a long, hot moment he can't see anything but miles of radiant brown skin over the strength and size of Jared's torso, a dark, brooding look on Jared's face. Jensen pauses, tennis ball clenched in one hand, fingers aching where he grips it, and he almost groans helplessly – then the crowd wolf whistles, screams and cheers, breaking the moment. Jared looks up and grins and shimmies for just a second before he pulls a fresh shirt on, and the desire flips over into irritation. Jensen growls low in his throat instead, turning pointedly around just before Jared's eyes can land on him.

Fourth set and Jensen feels the exertion settle deep in all his muscles – for now it's a good, low ache, of a game well played and more to go, but not many more games and it's gonna hurt – each swing heavier, each dash across the court just aching that little bit more and he can't, he _can't_ let Padalecki dig his fingers into an advantage. Jensen's fit, he knows he's fit, and if he believes for a second that Jared is fitter and stronger, then the psychology of it will do the rest and he'll be screwed.

Jared wins the fourth set in a rush of easy games, and panic claws at the base of Jensen's skull – but he catches Jim's eye, thinks of his mother watching at home, and in a sentimental moment he doesn't often indulge in, thinks of his father watching him, too. He looks at Padalecki then, and feels that zing of unspoken, inexplicable something, and tightens his mouth, firms his grip on the racket. _Don't think you've got it yet_. His eyes are still locked with Jared's. _You've never played a final set against me before_.

The crowd roars for long moments as they take their places before the final set, and the atmosphere filling the stadium is incredible. The sun is intensely orange as the afternoon deepens towards evening; the game's been long, incredibly so, and there's a whole set left. The fifth set. The last set, either way, and it's not like each set, game, _point_ isn't crucial – but as they glare at each other across the net, there's that unspoken knowledge that at two sets each, only one person can win this one; only one person can win the match.

The umpire calls for quiet; it descends quickly, and Jensen gets ready to serve. He doesn't exactly _want_ every match to get to this stage – he always prefers winning in three straight sets, or at least getting three of four – but when it gets down to the wire, the tense importance of the fifth set? He remembers why it's his favorite part of a game. Any game that gets this far is excitingly well-matched, and with him and Jared, it's like he's never felt before – like few have ever seen before, he'd bet. Shivers run down his spine, and he closes his eyes for a second, gripping the ball. He has more to give; he knows he can do this, that this doesn't have to be his defeat.

He opens his eyes, and serves.

It's faster than ever, even as matches often slow a little at this point – they're both hauling out great energy reserves and there are no pauses, no easy shots. It's fast and vicious and Jensen is _on_.

Jared dives for the ball, lands on his side, rolls, and he's up for the next shot to return it, green smears shocking against his white clothes. Jensen runs forward to volley it back, sending it way over Jared's head. Jensen serves a double fault and swears violently. He digs his fingernails into his palm, then wins the rest of the game in straight points.

They hold a moment of weird eye contact before each serve, and Jensen's given up trying to work this out: what Jared's thinking, what _he's_ thinking, what the swirling uneasy tightness in his belly is all about. He just lets it power him on.

 _I think I might – I think I might –_ Jensen keeps hearing in his head, cutting himself off before he even lets himself think the word _win_ , just plays, almost shaking because this is it. They win game after game each, no-one giving an inch, and a fine trembling starts up in Jensen's hands as they reach nine games each, no tiebreaker relief because this is the _final set_. This is everything. And it can't go on forever; someone is going to win this.

His whole existence has narrowed down to this court, this game, this incredible aggravating man across the court from him; he can't even imagine that there's a world out there beyond this screaming need to win, the soreness in his shoulders, the smell of grass, the way his racket digs into the calluses on his palms.

Jensen wins his tenth game to Jared's ninth, and then Jared opens his next game with an ace. Jensen manages to claw it back to fifteen-thirty, though, and Jared's eyes are narrow and intense as they battle for the next point.

Jensen's heart is thudding from more than the exertion as they rally, and he can feel the fine trembling spread all over his body but keeps himself in an iron grip so not a glimmer of it shows. He swings and grunts and his mind is now weirdly calm. This can't go on much longer.

Jared wins his next point, thirty-all, then Jensen twists smartly to return a ball Jared clearly didn't expect, and he's at forty. He wonders how long this will last, if they could bat the games back and forth into the twenties, and then he swings. He feels the _thwack_ as his racket connects, the ball flies back, arcing through the air, and–

–Jared misses the return by less than an inch.

They look at each other for a long moment, and Jensen thinks blankly, _Why did we stop?_ Then his eyes slide over to the scoreboard, and he realizes he's won.

His racket falls from his fingers but he barely feels it. He sinks to his knees then collapses forward onto his arms, face almost in the grass, and suddenly he really is shaking all over, muscles finally giving up. He won, he _won_. He got it. He _did_ it.

He breathes in deep, fills his lungs with the scent of the grass and the smell of his own sweat before he pushes himself shakily to his feet.

The crowd's roaring, on its feet, and Jensen grins helplessly around, pumps a fist weakly in the air, and before he can even really register properly that he won, his eyes slide over to Jared, eager to see his face.

Jared's got his hands planted on his knees, head hanging down, shoulders slowly expanding as he breathes in deep, then he looks back up, right at Jensen.

It's ridiculous, but it's like the noise of the crowd just fades out. Jensen's desperate to know how he's made Jared feel, but Jared's face doesn't give much away. He just nods slightly. Jensen feels weird, viciously pleased, and he wants to be purely _smug_ , to gloat, but something's not letting him.

He almost startles when he realizes they've just been standing there looking at each other for a beat or two too long, and he starts forward to the net as Jared draws in towards him, too, for the handshake.

 _I beat you, dammit_ , he thinks, holding Jared's gaze as they walks towards the net, looking for some sign of – rage or upset there, something immature and bitter, but Jared just shrugs, smiles tiredly. His hand is warm and Christ, _big_ in Jensen's.

"Good game," forces out Jensen, and Jared's jaw tightens ever so slightly. But then he relaxes and smiles, a small quirk of his lips.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it was." But he doesn't say, _Congratulations_.

\--

It's all a blur after that – talking to the press, hugging Jim and picking him up even as his tired arms protest. He thanks everyone who talks to him, smiling back until his face hurts. The carpet gets set out, the ceremony underway, then he's raising the trophy above his head again. He's grinning and so damn proud and validated and _fuck_ , yeah, Jensen Ackles isn't going anywhere. He's still the number one, and Jared's nothing, now. Jensen's the one standing here with the trophy.

Except it's not like it was last year, that warm, wholly good feeling of satisfaction that glows down into the tips of his toes. He feels restless, anxious, like he's forgotten to do something but doesn't know what, like leaving the stove on. He can point to the source of it, but he doesn't know _why_ Padalecki gets to him so bad; he just keeps seeing Jared in his mind's eye as he was there at the end, head hanging down, hair falling damply, looking smaller in that moment than he'd ever seemed before. Winning against Jared – his biggest threat, someone he hated – should have made this whole thing sweeter. Not bittersweet.

Jared's there, at the edge of his vision, at the edge of his awareness; getting his plate, having his own congratulations and interviews, but they don't exchange words or even more than the barest edge of eye contact. At some point Jared's gone, but Jensen can still feel his presence itching at the back of his mind as Jensen's still caught up in it all, still surrounded, overwhelmed. It seems like hours later when he can finally go.

He heads into the showers to wash the tacky, drying sweat of hours of playing off him and change out of the Wimbledon whites for the last time until next year.

He stumbles to a stop when he sees Jared, sitting on the wide bench that runs through the middle of the otherwise deserted changing rooms.

"Why are you still here?" he blurts out.

Jared jumps, turns his head to face Jensen, looking guilty for a second before his face smoothes over into a calculated blankness. "Sorry. Just thinking. Let me just–"

He unfolds himself, standing all the way up off the low bench; he's in loose gray sweat pants but still in his white game shirt, that grass stain still spread over one side, and he hasn't showered – Jensen can smell the sharp tang of his sweat across the room. He feels a shiver of arousal low in his belly and it makes him scowl. He puts an arm up against Jared's chest as Jared tries to pass him.

He's not sure exactly what he's going to say, just that for whatever reason – the same reason that he's restless and stupidly unhappy and irritable and prickly all over – he doesn't want Jared to leave. He wants to push and poke and get something, _anything_ from him.

"Aren't you pissed?" he says. "Huh? You were all set to win. Everyone said you were going to beat the great Ackles – that this would be the biggest challenge yet and you'd come out shining. You failed, man." He's almost surprised at what he hears himself saying, but it satisfies the angry restlessness in him.

Jared takes a step back and frowns at him, and he still looks tired and maybe a little disappointed, but he doesn't look angry. He should be angry, damn it – if Jensen's angry, and he _won_ , why isn't Jared?

Jared considers Jensen for a moment. "No, I didn't."

"I didn't see you raising the trophy, buddy," says Jensen meanly, feeling childish.

"Didn't win, yeah, but I didn't fail. I can't be ashamed of how I played. We both know that was a hell of a match. Both of us played the best we ever have, and you were just better enough to win. You deserved it, you played amazing, and I can't be angry at that. I can be angry at you being a dick right now but I can't – I can't let myself be angry over that match. I got further than I ever thought I could when I was a wide-eyed kid, and I played the best I possibly could, so I – can't be pissed. That's not me."

Jensen balls his hands into fists, because that's rational, and balanced, and sensible, and Jared shouldn't be allowed to be like that when rational and balanced is the last thing Jensen feels right now. Jared's throwing him off, fucking him up, and he hardly knows what to do with himself.

"Yeah, sure, you played well, but I beat you. I get all the honor, the trophy, the money, the interviews, the praise, all because of one missed point. You really okay with that? That's really fair?"

Jared finally, finally scowls, and a frisson of satisfaction rushes through Jensen. "What the hell is this, seriously? You're too good a sportsman to genuinely come here to rub my face in it, so you just want to get a rise out of me. Why? Why do you want to see me angry so bad? You're so insecure you don't just need to win, you need to see me angry or upset or humiliated by it? What does it matter so much to you!"

"I don't _know_ ," snaps Jensen, then clenches his mouth shut. Fuck."You were angry before, when we – talked, you went off on me, and now you're all, what, the bigger man? Fuck that. I know you got rage in you."

Jared makes a low noise in his throat, and Jensen fixes him with a look, sticks his chin out as if to say _see_.

"What the fuck is your problem? Why can't you leave me alone? Why do you get to me like this, why do I let you – fuck you. Fuck you! You want me to do angry, then _fine_ – get the fuck out of here before I make you." He steps up into Jensen's personal space, face hard and threatening, and Jensen just lights up all over, his breath picking up and his pulse starting to throb low and hot and insistent in his balls.

He feels wild and reckless, and he steps in even closer, fists his hands in Jared's shirt, and the smell of him is even stronger close up, all heat and exertion and male, and Jensen's feeling dizzy. " _No_ ," he spits out.

Jared all but snarls at Jensen, teeth bared. "Then I'll–"

Jensen shoves up and in and kisses him.

It feels like punching him, violent and satisfying, and for a moment, there's only the heat of Jared's mouth and the hardness of his teeth, and it's a blank, pure moment of sensation that's _so_ good.

Then Jared pulls away, and his eyes are wide. "That – _that's_ what you–"

Jensen has time to think, _Fuck_ , before Jared brings his own arms up to grab at Jensen's shirt and _push_ ; they crash across the room until Jensen is jarred up against the cool wall.

His breath shakes out of him at the impact and he braces himself, tense and trembling all over with exhaustion and helpless anger and want, ready for the punch, except it never comes.

Jared stares at him for a moment. "You–" he says, then he's shoving closer, nose brushing against Jensen. "This is what you fucking wanted, huh?" he whispers, and his lips are brushing against Jensen, making them tingle. He's crazy and horny, but he stays exactly where he is, held by disbelief and hope, and when Jared finally presses in and kisses Jensen, he can't help the moan. Jared's still got his big hands curled in Jensen's shirt, warmth of his skin pressing through, and he's so huge and strong and _there_ , pinning Jensen to the wall. Jensen's scared by how good that feels.

Jared slips his tongue along Jensen's lips, then in, opens his mouth wider, forcing Jensen's open, too. Then his hand is uncurling from Jensen's shirt and palming the side of his face.

There's a softness in the gesture that makes Jensen's chest tighten up, because if they're doing this, really doing it, it can't – it can't be something gentle or tender. Jensen feels too impossibly, inexplicably raw and open for that, like Jared could slip right in and do damage without either of them realizing it. If this is hard and fast and physical, it'll be just what Jensen needs and can clear out this stupid, complicated, churning unease Jared raises in him; it'll wash the tension clean away like a thunderstorm, and they can move on.

So he grabs roughly at Jared's hand and pulls it off his face, then fists one hand in Jared's heavy, sweat-thick hair and wraps his other arm around his back, tugs him further in.

"If you're gonna do this," he says into the kiss, turning it rough with his teeth bared and scratching along Jared's lip, "do it how I fuckin' want it."

Jared pulls back, his eyes flicking between Jensen's, then – "Fine," he growls, and _surges_ back in hard, forcing a knee between Jensen's thighs and his tongue deep into Jensen's mouth, a hot, insistent push.

Jensen can't help the little bitten-off _unh_ noises he makes into Jared's mouth at the deep fucking pushes of his tongue, because it's so, so good, the way Jared is so wide and firm and bleeding heat all over him. Jensen rocks down into the firm thigh between his own and shivers, arching his back so the pressure's just right.

Jared palms the back of Jensen's head roughly, angling his mouth where he wants it, and the way Jared can manhandle him around is at the same time unfairly hot and also scary, like he's not ready for Jared to have that much control over him. He gets a little wilder, arching further into Jared so their chests press together, warm through their thin shirts, and his shoulder blades roll right up off the hard wall until he's stumbling forward, momentum carrying them into the middle of the room.

They're almost tussling, pushing even as they're kissing with wet, gasping, open mouths; Jensen barely knows what he's doing, trying to shove Jared away and drag him closer at the same time, but it feels good, it feels necessary, this motion and strength and anger between them. Jared gives as good as he's getting, hands all over, rubbing and grabbing, and they stumble awkwardly across the room still kissing furiously.

Jared bites down sharply on Jensen's lip and Jensen hisses. "Fuck you," he snarls.

"Planning to," says Jared back just as hotly, kisses him. "You want it so bad, huh?"

"Shut the fuck up," says Jensen, hand sliding up between Jared's legs to squeeze his tight little ass.

Jared groans in his throat. "Make me," he says, so Jensen does, kisses him hard and fast, so filthy wide his jaw aches with it. He grabs at Jared frantically, and before he registers it, he's pulling at Jared's shirt. Jared tugs at Jensen's too, and it feels like they're _fighting,_ shoving against each other and each trying to undress the other first. Jensen's exhausted from the match, from the hours of pushing his body to the limit; he feels tired down to the core of his bones, aching with it, but he can't back down – uses the last of his strength on this as he pants.

Their shirts end up in puddles of white on the floor and Jensen has to pull back from Jared's insistent mouth as he yanks him back in and their chests are pressed together, because his breath hitches so sudden and hard he can't get any air for a moment. Jared's skin is warm and firm and slightly tacky with sweat, and Jensen wraps his arms tight around Jared's neck and arches himself just to feel the slide of their skin, making little shivery shocks tingle over his body.

Jared takes a step back under the onslaught, and Jensen pushes further forward until Jared reaches the bench, back of his knees jarring into it.

He sits down abruptly, but his hands are spread large and firm over Jensen's back, and Jensen just comes down with him, still kissing; he fits himself onto Jared's lap with his knees spread over Jared's hips, and Jared slides his hands down to grab at Jensen's ass, hauling him in tight. Jensen's cock is a rigid, needy weight caught in his briefs, and he groans, the sound loud in the silent room, as he grinds against the _size_ of Jared, huge hardness in his sweats.

Jensen feels hot and dizzy and he lets go of where he had a hand fisted in Jared's hair to scrabble at his waistband, tugs his shorts and briefs down just far enough to snap back under his balls. His cock stands up red against his belly and he groans again at the shocking relief, the pulsing freedom, and grinds back down.

Jared pulls his mouth away with a wet sound to look down between them, eyes wide, then he's got his own hand pulling at his sweats; his cock's a huge hard line that the soft material just molds to, and Jensen's mouth waters. Jared gets it out, and it's so thick and red, shining wet along the slit. Jensen shifts until their cocks are pressed up together, the urgent heat of Jared's against his, and Jared doesn't waste any time wrapping his big hand around the both of them together, tugging in slow pulls that make Jensen's breath stutter in his chest.

Jared glances up and they look at each other, finally not snarling or kissing or arguing, faces slack and blank with pleasure as Jared strokes. Jared's eyes are so pretty this close up, the delicate shape of them, his wide dark pupils making him look dangerous even though his softly open mouth makes him look so _young_. Jensen can't stand how weird he's feeling, so he slams his eyes shut and kisses Jared again desperately.

Jared wraps his other hand around the back of Jensen's neck and kisses him enthusiastically, hips rocking up in little twitches underneath them. Then he lets go, and Jensen whimpers at the loss of pressure on his dick – but then Jared's leaning back, back on the bench, and Jensen follows him down. The gravity does its job then, and it feels so good as Jensen's weight rubs them tight and slick together, both their hips shifting and grinding frantically until they click into a rhythm.

Jared's feet are still flat on the floor, strong thighs straight and solid under Jensen's, and Jared's head is almost at the edge of the wooden bench. Jensen's bent right over Jared, knees on the hard slats, spread wide over Jared's hips, and he feels wanton and slutty draping himself over Jared like this with legs wide and dick pushing needily against him.

Jensen's got one hand braced next to Jared's head, and he grabs at Jared's wrist with his other, presses it into the bench and shivers at the feel of the strength there, the flex of tendons under his palm. "C'mon, c'mon," he says into the kiss, not even sure what he's urging for, but they're rocking together faster and harder, and Jensen's almost crazy with the need for more.

Jared arches and bucks under him, tears his wrist easy from the grip to hold tight to Jensen's hips with both hands and just _yanks_ him in, setting his own pace, tugging Jensen's hips hard against his own – and Jensen just lets him, braces both his elbows on either side of Jared's head. Jared's fingers are spread wide and strong on his hips, then Jared growls and shoves them just inside Jensen's shorts to grip into his skin, and it's so fucking good; he's going to have purply crescent imprints from the cruel dig of Jared's fingernails but he doesn't care, loving that sharp bite of it.

The bright flashes of sensation when the head of Jensen's cock catches slippery against Jared's make his mouth fall open and his balls pulse, but it's not – not quite–

Jared makes a frustrated noise and Jensen matches it, then Jared's letting go, bringing one hand up to slip his fingers against Jensen's mouth. Jensen's belly twists with need, and he opens his mouth eagerly and sucks as Jared forces his fingers in. Their eyes catch, and Jared groans, a loud, filthy noise, without taking his eyes away, and Jensen sucks harder, wraps his tongue messily all over Jared's fingers until they're dripping wet, leaving a cooling trail on his cheek when Jared pulls them out.

He tries to spread his legs even farther when Jared tugs at Jensen's shorts, pulls them down past his ass, then those cool wet fingers slide against his hole.

Jared pushes two in at once, and it hurts, but Jensen clenches down around it anyway, loving that feeling of intrusion, of something _there_ , to bear down on and stretch him.

Jared doesn't ask if Jensen's okay, but he does keep his fingers mostly still, his other fingers curled against the curve of Jensen's ass, until Jensen bites at his lip and forces his tongue into Jared's mouth for another wide, messy kiss. Then Jared breathes out a muffled, " _Yeah_ ," and moves his fingers, pulling out until his fingertips tug at the rim then in, deep, again, and _fuck_ , his fingers are long. Jensen can feel – so much, the rub of his waistband against his thighs, the hard bench under his knees, the tired ache in his entire body overlaid by the buzzing of _sex_ ; but most of all, he can feel Jared's fingers inside him, fingertips moving around, pressing against him from the inside, and it feels so impossibly filthy. His face is flushed with the weird shame of it, like this is the first time anyone's touched him there, like he hasn't had a dick up there and begged for it more times he can count. Jared's twisting his fingers around in wide circles, and it feels so strange – pressure inside him where there shouldn't be – and so damn good, his whole body lighting up in waves, goosebumps breaking out in ripples down his spine and across his shoulders.

Orgasm is starting to burn through him, his breath catching in desperate little pants in his throat, and he pushes back into Jared's fingers, then down to rub his cock against the flat, wet planes of Jared's stomach; then he goes still as he starts to come, just lets the feeling take hold of him, the clench of his balls and come pulsing up thickly out of his cock, release making him feel dizzy as he cries out something incoherent. He rocks slowly back into Jared's fingers, still moving inside him and dragging out his orgasm. He forces his eyes open to look down at where he's spattering white all over Jared's incredible body, takes one hand off the bench to grab at his cock and tug, pull out the last couple drops before he shivers, the strength just bleeding out of him, and he sort of just folds himself down to lie on top of Jared, feeling the slick mess between them.

Jared's still breathing hard and desperate, hips shifting under Jensen, his huge hard dick an urgent line against Jensen's belly. Jared pulls his fingers out of Jensen, making him shudder all over again, but he can't move – he's just a warm pliant mess on top of Jared, too fucked-out and tired and thrumming with complete physical satisfaction to feel embarrassed, even though maybe he should.

It seems to do it for Jared though – he grabs back at Jensen's hips, fingers spanning across his lower back, and moves Jensen against him, fucks his cock up into him, sliding against the wet, soft skin of his belly. Just fucking goes for it, grinds up in hard thrusts that have Jensen's oversensitive cock twitching painfully with the movement, until Jared groans loud, babbles out something that sounds like, " _Fuck, gonna, yeah, Jensen – fuck – gonna–_ " and come spurts sudden and warm between them.

They lie there panting for a second, Jensen's head clearing and the bench uncomfortable where his arms and legs flop out onto it. He can't imagine what it's like for Jared all along his back – he's moving even before Jared brings a lazy arm up to push at him. He drags himself up and over just enough to lie back on the bench, mimicking Jared's position next to him.

Jensen has no idea what to say. This – this wasn't the last thing he _wanted_ , by far, but it was the last thing he expected, and it's fucked massively with his perception of Jared; it's disconcerting to think how little he really knows about the man that just made him come harder than he can remember in any recent history. He rolls his head to the side, but Jared's just looking up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with his deep breathing. He's still gleaming belly to chest with both their come, smeared between them – Jensen's slick and messy, too. His eyes track down to Jared's flat, flushed cock, and he swallows. If nothing else, the low echoing tug of want in his belly lets him know that he still needs to get properly fucked by that, but he's has no idea if that's even a possibility.

He clears his throat, but doesn't sit up. "I, uh. I didn't expect – mean for–"

Jared cuts him off. "Yeah, I know. Me either. Didn't think you–"

Jensen laughs a little, though there's not much humor in it. "Yeah, me either." He looks back at Jared and this time catches his eye, but the look doesn't tell him much. Jared furrows his brows slightly, like he's curious, then his face smoothes out and he stands up, tenser than anyone should have a right to look after sex as explosive as that.

Jensen sits up, too. "I don't – really know what to say," he starts. He has vague ideas of seeing if they could start over, but he doesn't really know if he wants to, because what would that even accomplish? They hated each other and then fucked, and sure, the sex was impossibly amazing, but those two things don't seem to add up to the best recipe for friendship.

Jared just looks at him, then nods. "Yeah." He takes his sweats all the way off and wanders over to the showers behind them, and Jensen doesn't let himself turn around and watch as Jared twists the water on to wash away the mess.

He comes back and glances inscrutably back at Jensen. "So, what, you feel better now? Got the trophy and a fuck?"

Jensen blinks – he'd almost forgotten about the match, because he had the luxury of forgetting. Because he won. And he wants to deny it, somehow, but – it _was_ what he wanted, both those things. Wanted Jared even more than he'd first thought, judging by the way the incessant crawling restlessness Jared had always sparked in him is now finally gone, flattened into a low buzzing satisfaction.

But he – doesn't really feel a whole lot _better_. Especially when he sees the bitterness he'd been so eager for now in Jared's face. "Jared," he says, almost helplessly, raises a hand like he might reach out to him, but Jared just frowns.

"Oh, don't," he says, sounding exasperated. "Just fucking – don't." And he leaves.

* * *

They don't see each other again until the US Open at the end of August, though it doesn't mean Jared hasn't thought of Jensen since.

The bastard won't leave his thoughts, actually – it's getting more than a little annoying. It was what it was – an anger-fuelled fuck after a fraught game – and that should have been the end of it. It's not – not the kind of thing Jared usually does, certainly not with another guy, but it'd be easier to deal with if the reason it was lingering in his thoughts was more to do with the wondering about men, wondering about how he'd felt another dick rubbed up against his own and liked it – oh, _more_ than liked it. But – that isn't the point. That's more of an afterthought. No, the thing that won't leave Jared alone is all specifically _Jensen_. His face, his words, the connection he'd felt. Jared hesitates when he thinks of it like that – _connection_ sounds like something romantic, and it wasn't that – it was raw and intense and crazy and uncomfortable and maddening and helpless, that _tug_ between them, but it was something strong. And he guesses that – stuff that strong isn't just wiped away, it echoes.

He just wishes it didn't have to echo so _much_.

He's jittery as they prepare for the Open, and so on edge he's annoying Jeff as they get down to where they're staying and get settled in.

He and Jensen have almost crossed paths in tournaments since then, but they've managed to avoid coming face-to-face since that final. Jared's pretty sure the enclosed, intense atmosphere of the Open in New York isn't going to be conducive to that sort of avoidance. If nothing else, they'll likely play each other again soon.

Not to mention the fact he's going to _have_ to see Jensen again, make himself talk to him, or – or something, before he goes crazy. Waiting for his irrational obsession to fade isn't yet working and he's frankly getting bored of thinking and not doing. That's never been a strong suit of his.

"Jared!" says Jeff, exasperated. "Mind on the fucking game."

Jared drops his eyes to the floor, the bright blue of the practice hard court they'd booked out. He bounces the ball once or twice, bright yellow splash against the blue. "Sorry," he sighs, dragging his mind back inside, away from green grass courts and Jensen's eyes blazing under the English sun. Right. New York, US Open, next big conquest. Points and prize money sitting pretty for the taking, and of _course_ all Jared is anticipating is facing Jensen in another big final.

He serves the ball fast and hard, trying to clear his mind with the explosion of movement and strength, and Jeff just looks at him, doesn't even move to return the ball as it flies miles out.

"Jared," he sighs, "what's the problem? I know you're not normally the most focused guy in the world when it comes to a lot of things, I know you well enough to be very familiar with the average length of your attention span, but you've never had trouble concentrating on your game like this." He taps his own temple with the tennis ball he's holding. "I need to know where you are in there, so I can help you out. Otherwise there's no point in me being here. I'm not just a machine for you to practice against, I'm your _coach_ , and that has to count for more."

Jared nods, and motions for Jeff to serve. He returns it, an easy ball, and they settle into a lazy rally. "I've kind of – developed an obsession that I'm not proud of."

"If that obsession isn't related to tennis, then I'm not liking the sound of that."

"Kind of. It's – well. Aw, shit," Jared says as he hits the ball out again. He serves quickly again even though technically it's not his turn, but they're not really playing any kind of structured game here. He just likes this rhythm as he's talking, helps him organise his thoughts, figure out just how much to tell Jeff. "It's – Jensen Ackles."

Jeff doesn't react a whole lot, just keeps rallying the balls back, leading Jared lightly around the court but nothing strenuous. "Not unheard of," he says at last.

"No?" says Jared, surprised.

"An intense rivalry like that can be good for your game. You played your best ever tennis against him. You know I'm prouder of you for that game than any other, even though you didn't win, and I know you agree with me. But if it's getting to you this bad – you probably know this, but you need to dial it down. If it's keeping you focused and motivated, good. If it's fucking with your calm, with your game, with your concentration, which I think it is, it's not good. You can't go into every match, everything you _do_ , thinking about how you're going to beat Ackles. Your motivation can't be that outward focused; it's gotta come essentially from inside. From your own desire to win for yourself."

Jared raises his eyebrows as he listens to Jeff's little speech, because – well, Jeff's right, but he can't decide if he's relieved or slightly disappointed that Jeff didn't pick up on the – _nuances_ of Jared's meaning. Because Jared's self-aware enough to know this obsession isn't – just – about beating Jensen, about rivalry. And if he weren't, the fucking _filthy_ dreams that end with him waking hard and sticky and humping the bed frantically might be a clue.

He doesn't say anything, though – as far as Jeff knows, Jared's never had a single less-than-pure thought about any male, let alone his biggest challenger on the scene; he doesn't exactly expect Jeff to go off in a homophobic rage, but he honestly doesn't know how he'd react. He wants to talk about it, but he can barely frame it to himself in a way that makes sense, so getting Jeff to understand would be pretty much impossible.

And either way, Jeff's right. It is fucking with him, and his main motivation now isn't playing the best he can and winning. He couldn't spell out exactly what his main motivation is, what endgame he's working towards. He's confused – he just knows it's inexplicably tied up in Jensen. And there's no way this can be anything but bad for his career.

"Yeah," he says after a few more silent rallies, and they swap out the serve ball by ball. "I know. It's fucking with me. But I'm not sure how to stop it."

"Talk to the guy," suggests Jeff. "You're both adults, and if you actually talk to him – not about it, necessarily, but in general – you might be able to move that childish block you've got in your head and calm down on the obsession. And I'm not trying to insult you, Jared, because I've been there, I know what it's like. But see him as just a human, like you, and maybe it'll–"

Jared wants to laugh at the idea of just _talking_ to Jensen, like two normal guys – the two of them have only ever fought, played and fucked. Regular conversation seems inconceivable. But Jeff stops talking abruptly because the door at the end of the court swings open.

It's Jensen Ackles.

He freezes when he catches sight of them, and Jared instantly shivers all over, just looking at Jensen and remembering the feel of that body pressed up against him. Jensen's in plain dark blue sports pants and polo shirt, but he looks so fucking sexy, just unconsciously _delicious_ , that Jared has to swallow as his mouth seriously fucking waters.

"Sorry," says Jensen tightly, and Jared tears his gaze away just long enough to see Jeff raising his eyebrows meaningfully. He shakes his head slightly, and Jeff just nods. _Talk to him_ , he's saying. _Fuck no_ , Jared's trying to say back, but he knows he's going to have to. In a way he desperately wants to, because he's going insane in this limbo, anyway.

He looks back at Jensen, who's frowning now. "Sorry," he repeats, "I didn't know this court was booked."

Jeff waves a hand. "We were just finishing up." He walks over from the other side of the court and claps Jared on the shoulder as he passes, then sticks his hand out to Jensen. "Jeff Morgan," he says, "Jared's coach. Good to meet you."

"Likewise," says Jensen stiffly, then Jeff's grinning and walking far too quickly out the door.

There's a strange, hot moment when Jared's instantly, embarrassingly aware that the last time he saw Jensen this close, he was covered in Jared's come.

"Look," says Jensen, sounding controlled and pissed off, but not quite meeting Jared's eyes, "should I just–" He jerks a thumb behind him at the door.

Jared glances around quickly, making sure the court is deserted and private before looking back at Jensen. "Fuck this," he says clearly, then reaches out to Jensen, grabs at his shoulder and walks them back a couple large steps until Jensen bumps up against the wall next to the door, and Jared steps right in, all close. He stares down at Jensen, who's most definitely looking at him now. Jared stays where he is, face just inches from Jensen's; Jensen doesn't move to push him away, either, and there's a flush rising on his cheeks.

"So," Jared says conversationally, "I don't know what this is, and I'm still pretty sure I don't actually like you in the slightest, but I don't think I need to know anything beyond the fact that I can't stop thinking about that really kind of fucking fantastic sex we had. And that I really, and I fucking mean _really_ , want to suck your dick. Okay?"

Jensen closes his eyes and he works his jaw for a second before he opens them again, hot and dark and heavy-lidded, and Jared's suddenly urgently all the way hard. "We shouldn't."

"Why? Says who? I'm pretty sure we both want this, and I don't see how actually fucking is going to mess up our game or _rivalry_ any more than wanting to fuck each other and not." He reaches down, palms the front of Jensen's pants and makes a low groan of appreciation when he feels the hard shape of Jensen's cock there; he's genuinely surprised at just how hot that is, feeling the jump of another man's dick under his own palm, and he's desperate to find out more. "Yeah, thought so," he says, and rubs slightly, just to watch Jensen's eyes flutter shut.

"Not here," says Jensen, a low rasp in his voice that makes Jared shiver slightly. "Hotel room."

"That's more serious than a quick rub in a locker room," says Jared, but he's smirking. He means it, though: the idea of Jensen all to himself, laid out in a bed, fully naked – it's amazing and terrifying.

"If we're doing this, we're doing it fucking right," says Jensen, eyes flashing, and Jared's reminded it's not necessarily him who will be calling all the shots, here; Jensen's not some passive acceptor of Jared's intentions, and that's more than a little exciting. "Or are you going to pussy out on me if this gets to be more than some adrenaline-fuelled fumbling?"

He leans in and bites at Jared's lip, and slides his other hand quick around Jared's back, then firm over his ass to grab hard onto one cheek and _force_ his fingers into the curve, shove right up between Jared's legs to push insistently through Jared's clothes right at his asshole; Jared flushes hot and prickly all over instantly, and his cock jerks almost painfully.

"Aw, _fuck_ ," he groans. "Not gonna be a problem. You're not gonna get me having a gay freakout when your dick is one of the prettiest things I ever saw. Give me some credit." He rocks forward into Jensen, presses in so Jensen can feel the hard line of his cock, then pushes back into Jensen's hand on his ass.

Jensen closes his eyes and thunks his head back against the wall, before he pushes Jared away.

"Room 326," he says. "Come after me in fifteen minutes."

\--


	3. Chapter 3

\--

It's the longest fifteen minutes of Jared's life – in fact it's closer to ten minutes when he stalks into the foyer of the hotel and jabs his finger at the elevator button for the third floor.

Jensen doesn't bitch about the timing, though – he's on Jared as soon as the door shuts, and they're kissing, deep and dirty like Jared remembers from after Wimbledon except not as frantic – because this is premeditated, this is _purposeful_ , and they've got time. Jared's practically giddy at the thought of exploring Jensen's body, and simultaneously surprised at just how giddy. The thought of there being hard planes and thick muscles where he's normally used to curves and softness doesn't freak him out, it just makes him so fucking eager to find out every way it can be different, every way it can be good. He's not sure if it's just Jensen or he's always had this horny, eager homosexual side, but either way, he's grabbing this opportunity with both hands.

Quite literally, as he wraps his hands around Jensen's hips and walks them back towards the bed, pushing Jensen down when they get there as Jensen bounces back down onto it.

"Clothes off," he says, and though Jensen's far from passive, he _obeys_ , which gets Jared hot and good in the gut. He grins down at Jensen, and follows him onto the bed.

He just looks down at him for a moment, marvelling at how goddamn pretty Jensen is, yet so fucking _male_ , until Jensen rolls his eyes and pulls him down for another kiss, fucking his tongue so wonderfully, dirty deep into Jared's mouth that all thought of anything apart from how bad he wants to fuck Jensen again just slides out of his head.

Jensen pulls away, kisses down Jared's throat, presses his teeth against the thin skin there, and Jared shudders.

"Don't get any ideas about you driving this," says Jensen, and moves so Jared's flipped onto his back, Jensen braced naked above him while Jared's still mostly dressed. His thighs are touching the strip of bare skin above Jared's waistband, and Jared's turned on and irritated all at once; it's heady.

"Don't get your panties in a knot," he says, leaning up to bite at Jensen's lip, then follows Jensen's example and moves down to suck at his throat, feels the goosebumps run over Jensen's back where his hands are spread over Jensen's shoulders. He grins. "Why does it fucking matter who's _driving_ , man, as long as we end up with my cock in your ass."

Jensen growls above him. "Who says–"

"Because you're clearly fucking gagging for it," interrupts Jared, and he moves his hands to grab at Jensen's hips and tug him down and forward so Jensen's ass is grinding down over the swell of Jared's cock in his shorts.

Jensen tightens his jaw belligerently, but his eyes slip closed and his cock twitches; Jared watching in fascination as precome swells from the slit.

"Fuck," he mutters, and pulls on Jensen's hips. "Wanna suck you, remember?" he says, and Jensen knee-walks up the bed until his legs are spread over Jared's shoulders and his cock is right there, hanging thick and heavy in front of Jared's face and he can smell the sharp tang of it. He slides his hands down over Jensen's thighs and thinks how this is kind of similar to when a girl sits on his face, except _Jesus_ , it's so fucking different at the same time.

He swallows and opens his mouth, and Jensen grabs at his cock and pushes it slow into Jared's mouth.

It feels even bigger than he'd thought; the taste is strong, and he cranes his head awkwardly off the bed to get a better angle to suck and slurp, spit already messy in the corners of his mouth. It's weird and kind of gross, but Jensen's staring down at him with this _look_ on his face, and Jared feels wonderfully filthy, his cock an urgent weight between his legs. He struggles up onto his elbows to get a little bit deeper, wraps his lips more fully around; Jensen rolls his hips forward and his cock slides in, bumps against the back of Jared's mouth. Jared swallows hard against a gag and pulls back a little, shooting a glare up to Jensen, and tightens his lips, sucks _hard_. Of course that just feels even better for Jensen; he moans, loud and sudden, and Jared can feel his cock move against his tongue. It's weirdly hot.

His neck aches and his own dick is _throbbing_ , though, so he drops his head slowly back down, Jensen's dick sliding out and bobbing back up to smack against his stomach. Jared's lips feel slightly numb, all fat and swollen, and they must look exactly how he'd imagine after sucking cock because Jensen's gaze zeroes in on his mouth, and he shifts so he can lean down to kiss him, sucks and bites; the sensation's oddly muted through his numbed lips and that somehow makes it sexier.

"Mmm," he says through the kisses, "get on with it, let's get to the main event, unless you're scared you can't tak– _ah_ ," he interrupts himself as Jensen reaches back, grabs at Jared's cock though his shorts and gently squeezes.

"That's your problem," Jensen says, low, sitting back and rubbing his ass against Jared's dick. "You're all rush-rush-rush. No time to think things through, no time for care. It's what makes a great tennis player, both power and restraint–"

The fucking nerve of him. Jared growls and moves quick and violent to flip them back over, Jensen landing on his back with a sudden shocked breath. "Shut," says Jared angrily, "the fuck _up_." He's straddling Jensen, now, Jensen's bare hard cock gleaming and pressed up against the bulge of his own, where his shorts are stretched out around it, a clinging damp spot over the head. He grips through the material and jerks it slow, watches how Jensen's eyes flicker down to it. It looks almost obscenely big, trapped in his shorts, and he flushes but doesn't stop. "Shut up, and let me fuck you."

Wonder of fucking wonders, Jensen doesn't snipe back, just stares up at Jared defiantly, tilts his head on the pillow slightly as if to say, _Go on, then_.

Jared gets off the bed to strip, and Jensen watches him brazenly, lying there with a hand slowly stroking his cock; Jared doesn't know whether to feel more uncomfortable or unbearably turned on by the frank stare. He climbs back on the bed and refuses to hesitate, because he just fucking knows Jensen's waiting for some gay freakout or whatever. He grabs at Jensen's thighs and crudely pushes them up to his chest, stares right down at the tiny pucker of Jensen's asshole. He's gratified to hear Jensen hiss in a breath, and see his cock jerk and move against his belly.

"You gonna just look at it, or–"

"Got any lube? Stupid question, bet you've just been waiting for this, huh? No way you're not prepared."

"Fuck you. Top drawer."

"Go on then. I'm – occupied." He grins, flexes his fingers in the meat of Jensen's thighs and pushes then slightly further up, apart.

Jensen swears and twists as best he can to reach a hand awkwardly into the nightstand, pulling back a half-empty tube of lube along with a condom gripped between his fingers; he looks Jared dead in the eye as he gets his hands down between his pushed-spread legs. They just watch each other as Jensen gets the condom deftly rolled over Jared's cock, then Jensen raises an eyebrow as he clicks open the lube. Jared takes that unspoken dare to look down, watches Jensen slick his fingers up and slowly push them inside himself.

Jared had felt it, before, felt his own fingers slipping inside Jensen, and it looks as impossible and wonderful as it had felt. That tiny hole just _giving_ , almost grudgingly stretching around Jensen's fingers, and as he gets two in and parts them slightly, Jared can see for a second the dark space between them – _inside_ Jensen.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, and his cock pulses helplessly with how bad he wants to get inside there. "Christ, _Christ_."

"Pretty sure he wouldn't approve of this," says Jensen, and there's a gorgeous strained edge to his words. His dick's hard and leaving little wet trails on his belly as he fucks himself; there's a hectic flush on his cheeks, and Jared bends down just so he can run his lips along Jensen's cheekbone, feeling his heated skin as he presses Jensen's thighs right against his chest, and Jensen doesn't even flinch. Fuck, Jared loves their athletic bodies – it makes this so much more fun.

"Come _on_ ," he says. "You must be fucking ready – you're not that tight, you slut," and shoves his hips forward so his cock bumps up between Jensen's cheeks, right up where his fingers are busy sliding in and out.

"Slut, huh?" says Jensen, breathless. "Don't know about you, but I don't seem to be the one begging for it, here. I could keep you hanging a while longer, you know – can't have you hurting me, wouldn't you just feel bad–"

Jared's about to let go of Jensen's thighs just to punch him, because if he goes another second without getting inside – but then Jensen pulls his fingers out and uses his slick hand to grab at Jared's cock, push it at his hole, and Jared just groans instead. The head of his cock inches in, and _god_ , oh god, it's so fucking good, grip around his dick like nothing else. Jensen pushes his hips into Jared and Jared thrusts hard and slow; his cock slides tight and smooth, right in, all the way, all the fucking way until his balls are pressed up against Jensen's ass.

"Oh, oh, fuck, Christ, _ah_ ," he says deliriously, head buzzing. He forces his eyes open to look down at Jensen – because fuck, this is a tight grip, and there's no real love lost between him and Jensen, clearly, but he's not particularly happy at the idea of hurting the guy.

Jensen's eyes are open and dark, though, staring right at him. " _Move_ , you fucking pussy," he says, so Jared bares his teeth slightly and does, pulls out and _slams_ back, this time – fuck, it's even better than that first impossibly good slide in.

He pushes a surprised cry out of Jensen as his hips crash into his ass and they're both jarred up the bed an inch. "God," he says, voice hoarse, and he does it again, again, deep hard thrusts.

"Fuck," says Jensen, and his voice is shaking but he's still bitching, "that all you got? Seriously? Show me you can actually fuck, or this whole thing ain't gonna be worth my time."

Jared tightens his jaw. "Grab on to something." And he seriously fucking goes for it, _fucks_ Jensen, hard and _fast_ , revelling in the sensation that he doesn't have to hold back, to be careful, because Jensen's solid and strong and wants this. His hips piston forward, thighs burning, and all he can hear is the blood roaring in his ears and Jensen's rhythmic, " _Oh, oh, oh!_ "

He's dimly aware of Jensen suddenly going quiet, mouth open but soundless, then a couple seconds later that tightness around his cock just _clenches_ , and he can see Jensen coming in spatters up his chest.

"Oh fuck," he says, and stops at the end of a thrust, cock buried deep inside Jensen; he hangs there for a moment on that glorious edge of orgasm before he finally spills and fucks forward a few more times, rolling thrusts through the pulses of his orgasm, moaning helplessly.

He pulls out with a groan, hunches down to look at Jensen's sore, stretched hole, the swollen rim of it shining with lube, and regrets for a moment that he used a condom because fuck, he'd love to see that with his own come dripping out white.

Jensen makes an annoyed noise and shoves him away, closing his legs, and while Jared's tying off the condom, Jensen rolls off the bed – far too quickly for someone who's just been fucked as hard as he was – and jumps into the bathroom to get first shower. Jared frowns. "Hey!" he shouts through the door.

"Go use your own, this is my room," says Jensen back. "Plus, I'm messier than you are."

It's weird – anyone else Jared just fucked and he'd have no qualms about just following them into the shower, but that's way too – intimate for him and Jensen, even if he did just have his dick up Jensen's ass. God. This whole thing is weird, and Jared doesn't really know what to do, and it will probably – almost certainly – all end up being a huge mistake, but – well. With sex that good, it can't be _too_ big a mistake.

\--

Jared wins through to his semi-final with no real problems, and he's almost giddy watching Jensen's, because if he wins, they'll get to play each other again, which Jared's fantasized about almost as much as the sex. It was a seriously good match.

But Jensen fucks up. It's awful to watch, not because it's any one thing, but because it's so gradual and slowly inevitable. It's just what happens, sometimes – one mistake breeds another, unlucky and unpredictable, then frustration breeds more mistakes. The other player is more than good enough to take ruthless advantage of the openings – and Jensen's slowly but surely shut out of the game, until Murray takes the fourth set without a whole lot of trouble.

Jared sits and watches and balls his hands into fists, looking at Murray with resentment. He's never wanted to play anyone _less_ , except there's no way he's letting the bastard win.

Jared's almost surprised at how angry he is, though he's pretty sure Jensen's just as angry at himself, if the drawn, tight look on his face is anything to go by.

Jared glares at Murray over the net fiercely when he steps out into the final two days later, and the poor guy looks taken aback. Jared feels slightly bad, but – fuck, he should be facing _Jensen_ across the net, glaring at him just as fiercely, probably, but feeling shivers of excitement run down his back at the game to come – and what might come after. Now he just wants to get this game over with – and yeah, it's was what Jeff was talking about, things fucking with his focus, because he's pretty sure he should be excited that he's close to winning another Grand Slam, but instead it's Jensen on his mind.

He's still determined to win this, and when he does, playing with a ferocity that's not as exciting as the incredible energy he'd had during Wimbledon but perfectly effective in decimating Murray's game, he thinks he must be doing something right, because he's got the trophy clutched in his hands and oh yeah, it still does feel pretty damn good.

It would just be better if it had been snatched from Jensen.

He thought he'd be the last person Jensen would want to see after that, after Jared took that chance that Jensen had fucked up for himself, a living, breathing reminder that he didn't get to play against him in the final – but Jensen comes to his room later that night.

They don't talk this time, not snark or trash talk or anything, really, barely a word except for the necessary. They do fuck, though, long and addictively incredible. Jared's pretty sure he's not going to be able to give this up any time soon.

* * *

Jensen remembers telling himself that fucking someone he hated would screw with his head, because sex added to any kind of emotional vulnerability was never going to be a good idea.

Turns out he maybe should have listened to himself – or maybe not, because whatever sex with Jared is like emotionally, it's also fucking _phenomenal_ , every single time. And considering they haven't been doing this very long and aren't that often in the same place, they've packed in a lot already; and it just kind of gets _better_.

He collapses back onto the bed, wiping his mouth, and presses his head back into the soft pillow, licking the tang of come from his lips.

"Shit," breathes Jared.

"Mm-hmm," returns Jensen, lazy and fucked-out. He stares up at the bland hotel ceiling, trying to figure out if it's any different from the hundreds of hotel ceilings he spends his life looking up at while on the tournament circuit. He repeats the cycles and the people and the matches to collect his points and prize money, all the big players just rattling along the upper levels of the tournaments, up-down, win-lose; it's all a weird kind of not-quite-downtime between the bursts of energy for the four Grand Slams a year. Sometimes it feels fucking pointless, but he's still chasing those numbers, still feels that pulse of satisfaction that's worth a lot when he sees his name sitting pretty on the top of the rankings. And it's a job. Everyone's gotta pay the bills.

Jared sighs and stretches out next to him, and Jensen should go, soon; this isn't his room, and they don't hang around after fucking, and Jensen likes getting his head together when he's back on his own. He'll move – in a minute or two. For now, he's warm and relaxed and pleasantly aware of the warmth of Jared all along his side.

Jared makes a pleased, lazy sound. "So, you looking forward to Australia after Christmas? Gonna be weird going from winter to their summer."

Jensen slowly turns his head and raises his eyebrow at Jared.

Jared shrugs irritably. "What? We can't make conversation? We gotta just argue or fuck all the time? Gets old, man."

Jensen's reluctantly amused, mouth tugging up. "Right." They – really don't talk much. They mostly just – meet eyes, talk just enough to set up a time, and fuck. And it's always really fucking good, the intensity and strange, strong emotion he feels around Jared arrowing right into lust rather than getting caught up in the bad kind of friction between them – but Jensen doesn't examine it beyond that. They fuck, they go their separate ways, and if they're desperate for it after just a few weeks and seek each other out for it at every competition they're go to – well. It's just – really good sex.

"Well, you're talkative," says Jared conversationally, and Jensen frowns.

"I'm just not used to shooting the shit with you. Normally we just – you know, fuck and swear at each other a bunch and then leave."

Jared shrugs again, a lazy, easy movement in the corner of Jensen's eye where he's still lying on his back.

"Well, maybe I'm bored of it being just that. I'm a talkative guy; it seems wrong I talk more to, I don't know, my mom's gardener at home, than I do to the guy I regularly do fucking dirty things with."

Jensen twists his mouth awkwardly and folds his arms behind his head, glancing at Jared. "So why change that now?"

"Dunno. Just a whim. Feel like I should know more about you."

"Why? You don't need to know more about me to fuck me. We don't even like each other."

"Or so we assume."

Jensen does turn his head towards Jared then, to raise his eyebrows disbelievingly again.

Jared waves a hand around. "We got off on a bad foot. Plus, most of the arguing was sexual tension."

"And epic rivalry!"

"That too," agrees Jared. "But it doesn't mean we have to keep up this whole enemies-fucking thing. We're not on the court, here."

Jensen shrugs, not sure why he's arguing the point, but the idea of _not_ defining his – _whatever_ with Jared as just rivalry, dislike and fucking, of making it something that truly exists outside of the court – it's kind of amorphously scary. He tightens his mouth. "Or maybe we just don't get along and like to fuck." He lets his eyes travel down Jared's body then, how unselfconsciously naked he is, cock soft on his thigh but pleasantly flushed, his whole body lightly gleaming with exertion.

He looks up to see Jared roll his eyes. "Whatever you say that gets you through the day." But he doesn't sound pissed, just vaguely amused and patient, and even though that's annoying as fuck, Jensen finds himself returning Jared's small smile for a second before he remembers himself and scowls, rolling back to look at the ceiling.

He stays for a good half hour longer, in a strangely unprecedented comfortable silence. And that, really, is the start of the slide into something else, because it _stays_ with Jensen.

\--

It's at the Australian Open that they next meet. Jensen loves the start of these competitions, the buzz of potential, the atmosphere and excitement that no other tournaments capture. Everything leads up to them.

It's busy and packed the day of the opening rounds – ceremonies and press opportunities and photos and getting fully registered, sorting out passes and family tickets and everything – it's a crazy day, and yet it seems like everything slows down when Jensen catches sight of Jared, centering into a deep pull of want in his belly. He raises a hand in greeting, then pulls it back down, feeling stupid because that's – they're not friends. It's weird. Anyway, Jared's not looking in his direction, he's gesturing enthusiastically at a reporter, a petite thing with long brown hair that gleams in the sun as she throws her head back and laughs.

Jared grins down at her, and Jensen frowns, hangs back and watches them. The reporter puts her hand on Jared's arm, a casual, flirty touch – and Jensen gets that, he's had his fair share of reporters hitting on him – it's to be expected when you're famous and hot, like Jared is. Jensen still doesn't like it, which is ridiculous, because it's just – but Jared isn't pulling his arm discreetly and politely back. He's angling himself into her, and his smile's slower and smaller, now, with more intent behind it.

And Jensen – Jensen is _so angry_. His heart rate picks up and his fingers twitch and curl into fists; he wants to storm over and tear them apart, tell her to get her stupid tiny _hands_ off Jared, tell Jared to not even think about touching anyone else. He's jealous – so jealous, and the worst thing is he should have seen this coming, because he knew he felt more than just casual sex-related feelings for Jared, even if he refused to define it otherwise. And now his own helpless reactions have done it for him – shoved it right in his face that he's gone and gotten _invested_ , and he doesn't know why, because they're not friends. They're not anything, they just fuck, but apparently the idea of Jared fucking anyone else is not good. Not fucking good at all.

He takes a deep breath and can't turn his gaze away from where they're closer together, the flutter of her eyelashes, the tilt to Jared's head as he watches her, saying something that makes her laugh prettily.

He has to get out of here. Jared finally looks away from the reporter as Jensen walks past him, and their eyes catch, and Jared must see something in Jensen's eyes because his face just _blanks_ as they look at each other – then Jensen's leaving.

He goes back to his hotel room and stares at the wall for a while, taking deep breaths, then shakes his head and gets out his phone.

"Jim, come get me and tell me I'm being a twelve-year-old girl."

Jim sighs, and it crackles through the phone. "You at the hotel? I'll meet you there in ten, then we'll go and be tourists for the rest of the day and not think about tennis, or guys, or whatever it is that's got your delicate panties in a knot."

"Fuck you. Really?"

"Yeah. Bring a hat, it's a little warm out there."

That's an understatement – Melbourne is sizzling in the middle of the Australian summer, but Jensen welcomes it; he's always been a fan of the heat way more than the cold, and he needs some distance – from the atmosphere, the game, the scene, from Jared. "Thanks. Really."

"Don't mention it. Tomorrow you're not allowed to think or breathe or know anything but tennis, but I'm giving you the afternoon off."

Jensen closes his eyes briefly as they take a tour down the river, lets the sun pour hot all over him, and convinces himself it's not a big deal. He gets possessive of stuff; his mom always said he acted like an only child even with a brother and a sister. Maybe it's being a middle child, actually – but what's his is his, whether it's the Wimbledon trophy or the guy he's fucking. But neither of them said anything to make it clear it was or wasn't exclusive – and there was no reason for it be exclusive. It's stupid to think Jared wasn't going to fuck other people. Stupid to think Jensen hadn't even considered fucking other people. Maybe he should. Maybe it would calm this whole thing down and give him some perspective.

Jim doesn't ask him what's up, just enough to determine it's not something that's going to screw anything over big time; he lets him be, just talks idly about anything, falling into that easy conversation Jensen treasures with Jim, because Jensen doesn't really often find it easy to just talk with someone.

Dusk falls over the city and Jim looks carefully at Jensen over the remains of their dinner where they sit outside a small restaurant in the city. "You've been weird since England, Jensen, and I know you're private as all hell, but I _am_ here, if you need. I'm not just here to make your game better. I like to think I'm your friend."

"You are. Christ, Jim. You're a good friend. I'm just – you know me. And this – I don't know, it's a weird situation. But I'm working it out. You don't wanna know the sordid details, anyway."

Jim rolls his eyes, but it's fond. "So it is about a guy, not tennis."

"Kind of." Jensen grins at Jim's confused face, shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. Come on, let's get back. All tennis, all the time tomorrow, right?"

\--

Jensen spends the next morning practicing hard, studying the game of his opponent in the first round which he'll be playing in tomorrow, planning out strategies, going over them with Jim, and settling down into the headspace of a competition. Getting himself ready to launch into it.

At lunchtime he sits in the cafe at the Melbourne Park center, toying with his salad and thinking about shots and serves and spins and _not_ Jared, when he catches the eye of the guy behind the deli bar. The _very_ cute guy, with soft dark blond waves and gloriously tanned skin, blue eyes and a half-smile on his face.

Jensen thinks of Jared's hand spread over that reporter's slim arm, his laugh and slow smile. He needs to stop framing everything he's doing in terms of _Jared_. This isn't any kind of fucked up revenge or copycat; this is just – a cute guy at a deli.

Jensen wanders over to the bar and looks down at the spread.

"Can I help you?" asks the deli guy; and Jensen knows everyone thinks that, but damn, the Australian accent is sexy.

He looks up with a grin – not quite flirting yet, just testing the waters, but when the guy raises one eyebrow and grins back, he's pretty sure he's on the right track. "Maybe," he says. "Tell me what's good–?" He leaves it hanging, waiting for a name with a grin.

He knows he's being cheesy, but he's gratified when the guy laughs, throwing his head back. His neck is long and lickable, like Jared's–

Jensen shoves that thought away. This isn't about that.

"Mark," the guy says. "And I know who you are."

Jensen shrugs. "Well, at least let me pretend to introduce myself," he says. He sticks his hand out over the glass bar. "My name's–"

There's a sudden hand firm on his shoulder. "Jensen, can I talk to you for a second."

He looks back and there's Jared, tall and firm, face set and dark. "What the–?"

"Now."

Jensen frowns, angry at him, at himself for the way his heart jumps in his chest, and looks back apologetically at Mark. "I–"

But Mark just puts his hands up in mock surrender and backs away, fades into the bustle of the cafe staff behind the bar.

Jensen jerks his shoulder from Jared's grip, facing him. "What the fuck?"

Jared curls his lip. He's dressed like Jensen is, sports pants and shirt, sponsored Adidas to Jensen's sponsored Nike, of course. He jerks his head behind him and stalks out of the cafe and Jensen feels pathetic following him but he does anyway, curious and pissed off and just all lit up and on edge like he always, always is around Jared.

They get outside, walking towards the gyms complex; Jared stops in a deserted area and spins around. "The hell was that?"

"Was what?"

"You and–" He clenches his jaw.

"Me and Mark?"

" _Mark_." It's said with such venom, and Jensen _gets_ it in a rush, feels unbalanced and like he might start laughing.

"You're _jealous_?"

Jared makes an angry noise in his throat and looks away.

Jensen shakes his head. "You? After with that fucking reporter–" He shuts his mouth when he realizes what he just said, but Jared's already looking back at him with raised eyebrows.

"Seriously? You–" He laughs. "Speaking of jealousy, huh? I was just flirting, Jensen. It's what I do. So what, you go out and find the first pretty thing you can to get back at me?"

Jensen grits his teeth. "She– and no. I was just – it wasn't about you." But it sounds hollow to his ears, because of course it was about Jared.

"Wasn't about me, huh? Go on, then. Go back, finish the job, suck Mark's pretty little cock. Maybe I'll go find that reporter, if you don't give a shit."

"Fuck you."

"Looks like that's what's going to happen here. Fucking better. Christ, don't fucking – think you can go off and flirt with little twinks."

"And you don't let slutty little reporters get their hands all over you."

"Miaow," says Jared. "Yeah. Just so long as we're clear."

"Fucking – one thing we've _never_ been is clear, Jared."

Jared steps in close, fists his hand in Jensen's shirt – and Jensen gets a hot, thrilling flash of fear that Jared's going to hit him, but Jared's tugging him in, kissing him fast and hard on the lips, before pushing him away. "I don't know what the fuck we're doing here, but whatever it is, I don't – I can't." He shakes his head, face still drawn and angry. "I don't want it to be anyone else. Their hands on you. Shit."

Jensen shivers, and he should be angry, because who the fuck is Jared to put that claim on him, when this isn't even anything they can _name_ , but the fact is, he feels it, too. No one else gets to touch Jared, to fuck him, to slide their lips down over that pretty cock – it's his, for better or worse, right now, and it's satisfying in a low, hot way that Jared's the same. A mutual, frantic possessiveness that can't be healthy, but it's making Jensen's scalp tingle with goosebumps that run all the way down his back at how thrilling it is.

"Gonna put your hands on me instead, then?" he asks, setting his jaw, and Jared tugs him in, sudden and tight, and ducks down to bite another quick sucking kiss to Jensen's lower lip before he pulls away and stalks off.

Jensen's mouth tingles, throbs hotly, and for one confusing moment he thinks Jared's really _leaving_ , until Jared throws an impatient, almost-needy look over his shoulder, and Jensen follows without a thought.

"This is _so_ fucking classy," Jensen grumbles when they lock themselves in the large handicapped stall in the bathrooms behind the gyms, but Jared's on him before he can really give a shit.

"Want my hands on you?" he breathes. "Only my hands? No one fuckin' else–"

"Yeah–" says Jensen, then his breath leaves him as Jared shoves him against the wall and fits his mouth to Jensen's with that demanding, wet push of his tongue that's amazing and impossible like it's the first time – and then there are his hands, right there, shoving all insistent and rough up under Jensen's shirt to palm against his skin; his fingers rub over then grab _in_ , pulling Jensen flush against Jared like he's trying to haul him into his body, fuse them together.

Jensen shudders and sucks on Jared's tongue, utterly fucking owned and almost scared at how – _not_ scary that is. "Christ," he breathes, tearing his mouth away from Jared's, sliding his lips wetly along Jared's jawline then down his throat as Jared gets his hands on Jensen's hips, rocking them together hard. Jensen gets dizzy at the feel of Jared's hard cock shoved against his, even though he's seen it and touched it and felt it; it always feels so thrillingly, impossibly big under Jared's clothes.

"Want you in my fucking mouth," Jensen mutters, and he pushes and squirms down Jared's body until the floor is cold and hard under his knees, and he ignores the uncomfortable press of it to rub his face into Jared's sweats, push his face against the thick swell there. He breathes in deep, fills his nose with the smell of Jared's cock until the flat, clinical tang of the bathroom is drowned out under the dirtier, hotter scent.

Jared's hands move restlessly over Jensen's head, and Jensen wants him to just – grab on, push him down. He tugs Jared's pants down until his cock slaps up, and he doesn't fuck around before gripping his lips tight around the swollen head. He slides down, sucking as goes, and Jared gasps; Jensen closes his eyes as Jared's cock bumps against the softness at the back of his throat.

He swallows, throat fluttering, and his eyes water with the stretch; he pulls away to breathe, pulls off entirely and rests his head on the thin skin of Jared's hip, touching his lips there lightly. "Go for it," he says, voice already rough, and then reaches up, puts his hand flat over Jared's on his head; presses down slightly. "Just fucking go for it."

"Shit," says Jared, "Shit, yeah," and he does; he puts his hands both flat on Jensen's head and grips, pulling Jensen back and then down onto his cock. Jensen tightens his lips and relaxes his throat and _lets_ him, steadying himself with hands spread over Jared's firm thighs. Jared pushes his head down and rolls his hips up, fucking Jensen's mouth slowly, deliberately, getting faster. Little " _uh, uh_ ," noises spill helplessly from Jared each time his cockhead slips just into Jensen's throat for a split second at the end of each thrust.

Jensen squeezes his eyes shut, dampness beading in his eyelashes; he breathes deep through his nose and loses himself in the sensation – in the raw stretch of the hard dick filling his mouth, the tang of precome slipping along his tongue on each push in, the needy, urgent pulse of his own cock. He shifts and spreads his knees slightly on the hard floor but he doesn't move his hands from Jared's thighs; doesn't move to give himself any real relief. Because it's this – it's staying so damn still and letting Jared fucking fill him up and own him that's turning him on.

Jared's holding him down for longer at the peak of each thrust now, breathy sounds flipping into throaty wordless moans as his dick squeezes farther down Jensen's throat; Jensen gags and his throat hurts and his dick aches but Jared's so fucking huge and hard in his mouth, he's gotta be–

"Fuck!" yells Jared, holds Jensen down hard so his nose is pressed against flat belly, he's so full, so full of Jared – and he feels Jared pulse, hard; come spills thick and bitter in his mouth. He pulls back against Jared's grip, now, sucking along the length as Jared spurts a last couple jets, collecting the come on his tongue rather than choking on it at the back of his mouth, and he swallows the thick mess of it. It's fucking disgusting; he's never _liked_ the taste, but fuck if he doesn't love it, somehow. His dick throbs, and he needs so badly to come.

Jared's slithering down the wall, now, one hand gripping the silver bar bolted to the wall and the other still on Jensen's head, pulling him up to meet his mouth as they get closer. Jared moans into the kiss, sucks eagerly like he's drinking down the taste of his own come; Jensen moans back shamelessly, needily. His hips shift restlessly and the almost-almost push of orgasm is tingling down his legs and across his shoulder blades.

Jared _mmm_ s like he's agreeing to something and lets go of the bar to sink down onto the floor. His hand drifts along Jensen's thigh – close, closer – before he rests it casually over the swell of Jensen's dick through his pants. Jensen _whimpers_ , can't help it, and he tears his mouth from Jared's to press his face into Jared's shoulder as he rocks his hips up awkwardly into the maddening light touch; the angle's all wrong, and he has no leverage, and he feels like he's about to cry with how badly he needs this, until Jared tightens his hand almost cruelly over the bulge.

Jensen opens his mouth, wordless, biting into Jared's neck as he comes, pulsing into the cotton of his briefs, against the grip of Jared's hand over him – not even skin on skin, but he was so fucking wound up.

"Mmm, yeah, _my_ hands on you," murmurs Jared almost unintelligibly as he pulls Jensen up into a kiss again.

 _Yeah_ , thinks Jensen, saying it with the deep fucking of his tongue into Jared's mouth, and shit, he means it. His hand finds Jared's and he grips tight; it's not a romantic gesture, but a telling one: _yeah, fine, your hands only_. "Fucking – vice versa," he says, voice rasping and sore. He'll be damned if he's letting Jared hold him to some arbitrary standard; they're in this ridiculous, unnameable thing together.

Jared flips his hand in Jensen's grip so they're palm to palm, grips even tighter back – it's still so far from romantic, but it feels good somewhere deep. "I pretty much don't even _want_ to touch anyone else," he says with an almost-laugh, and presses his forehead against Jensen's, eyes closed.

Well. That's that, then. Neither of them going to or wanting to fuck anyone else – it's automatically more meaningful than any other relationship Jensen's had in the last year, except it still feels ridiculous to call it that. A relationship. As if it's just like anything else Jensen's experienced before.

He opens his eyes and studies Jared's face, the soft shape of his closed eyes – so close to his own that his eyes cross. Jared is like nothing Jensen's experienced before.

He pulls back and runs a rough hand through Jared's hair, something that might be affectionate on anyone else but it seems something both more and less with Jared. Just – a touch. "We doing this?" he says, nearly a demand, because he needs some sort of validation beyond a possessive claim, here.

Jared opens his eyes and just looks at him, steady and dark. "Weren't we already?"

Jensen tenses his mouth. "I'm just – just want to state that. Just throwing it out there. So I know. We doing this?" he asks again.

Jared's eyes flicker away then back firmly to Jensen. He shrugs, weirdly awkward but defiant. "Yeah. Yeah, guess we are."

He pulls Jensen in, then, kisses him with a gentleness belied by the rough fist of his hands on Jensen's shirt, then he stands up, facing the door. He hesitates a second, then turns around and shoves out a hand towards Jensen, who's still sitting on the floor, feeling a little overwhelmed, not to mention rubbery-legged and unpleasantly tacky from his orgasm.

Jensen eyes Jared's hand. "Aren't you chivalrous," he says, but takes the hand and pulls himself up.

Jared looks away then, and drops Jensen's hand. "Leave a couple minutes after me," he says. "In case anyone's watching."

Jensen shrugs. "Good luck in the tournament?" he offers, not sure why he makes it a question.

Jared glances back. "Yeah. You too. May the best man, etcetera."

Jensen can't help but grin. "I plan to," he says, and Jared looks like he wants to scowl but grins instead. "See about that," he says, and then he's gone.

They – well. They're whatever they are. And they still haven't talked about it, not really, and that kind of _don't fuck anyone else_ declaration normally needs a little more discussion. For now, though, Jensen feels a whole lot more Zen about the whole fucked-up thing. Baby steps.

* * *

For all they've made a certain kind of progress, it's not until Jared finds himself watching Jensen's semi-final, on the edge of his seat and rooting for _Jensen_ to win, that he really takes a step back and looks at the shift he's made. This isn't exactly what it used to be, sure – but they're rivals, right? First and foremost. Except then Jared shouldn't be sitting here wanting Jensen to win. He should be cheering with each missed point, not gritting his teeth and wincing in sympathy. It's not even about wanting to face Jensen in the final, feeling that electric tension again and playing against the guy who brings out his best game. There's an element of that – every match Jared's played since than has felt frankly lacking in comparison, even the ones he's won – but mostly he's thinking of Jensen. Thinking _well done_ , and, _oh, you nearly got him_ , and _hey, no way was that on the line_! He's cheering Jensen just for Jensen, because he wants to see him win, because he deserves it, and isn't that just the kicker? He wants to see Jensen _happy_.

Because wanting to see someone happy is a whole different ball game – as it were – to wanting to see them writhing on the end of your cock. Jensen's way further into Jared's life and _head_ than he ever anticipated, but judging from the way Jensen keeps throwing glances into the crowd, seeking out Jared before he even looks over at his coach after each point, he isn't the only one. Reassuring, maybe, but a little bit fucking terrifying as well. If they're both – but overthinking this whole thing is just going to make it more complicated than it needs to be. Than it already is. They're fuckbuddies who aren't buddies but who are exclusive, and that's – that's all Jared's going to call it right now because he has more important things to think about. Like tennis. His _game_.

Jensen wins his semi-final, of course, and shivers tingle along Jared's shoulders just before he starts his own match later because that chance of playing Jensen again is so tantalizingly within his reach. They haven't played each other since Wimbledon, and Jared's so eager for that feeling again that he's shaky with it.

Which, of course, is when the match goes to shit.

He's playing exceptionally well, though not his personal best, and he's grinning because it's in the bag, except Verdasco hits a sneaky angled return into the deep opposite corner to Jared, and he twists, throws his weight on the other leg to flip back over the court and return it, should be easy – except there's a deep, agonizing, pulling, twisty _pain_ in his knee that makes him groan, fall down onto his good knee, and nearly white out with the sick rush of pain.

It's the knee he's hurt before, and shit, fuck, he's just caught it at the wrong angle and _god_ , it hurts.

He's allowed a quick time out and he talks to the on-court trainer; gets an icepack and the pain recedes but there's swelling starting up, and it's a low, dark, ugly throb. He straps on a bandage brace and hobbles out for the start of the next game, but it's clear it's pointless – he can barely walk across the court.

He forfeits, and it feels like the worst thing he's ever had to do.

\--

"God damn fucking _shit_!" he yells when he finally gets to his hotel room.

He's been poked and prodded by Jeff and the physiotherapist and scheduled for an ultrasound to check the extent of the damage, but it's clearly what happened before. He's twisted it, sprained around the tendon – the pes anserine insertion, to be specific, and he wishes he didn't have to know the fucking terminology because it would mean he hadn't _fucked it up_. At least it's not as cliché as his elbow.

He's gonna have to rest up in a serious way, bed rest and two crutches, no exertion or impact – he's already feeling antsy. It'll be for a good two, three weeks. Maybe four to stay on the safe side. Then he can ease back into training, with checkups, to avoid any lasting damage and inflammation, and chronic tendonitis. He should be right back at top level in no more than a couple months, which will give him time to be back on form for the next Grand Slam – France in May. It could've been worse, but. It's just so fucking unfair that he messes up one stupid movement and he's got all that to look forward to again.

He sits on the bed and chucks the temporary crutches he'd been given down on the floor; he curls his hands into fists, then growls and twists his body to punch at the wall but pulls it at the last second, thinking of wrapping bruised and swollen knuckles around a tennis racket. It kind of just makes him want to punch things all the more.

He's flopped back on his bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the throb of his knee, when there's a light knock on the door.

He ignores it, but there's a second, more insistent one, then a third, and Jared scowls and sits up carefully, scrabbles for his crutches, and limps over to the door, ready to give Jeff an earful for making him get up.

Except it's not Jeff – it's Jensen.

"Hello," he says, feeling confused and then abruptly embarrassed for sounding so oddly formal.

"Are you alright?" demands Jensen, pushing into the room.

"Uh, no, not really. I hurt and I've fucked up my chances of playing at all for at least the next few weeks and lost my shot at another Grand Slam. So how's your day been?"

Jensen clenches his jaw. "Christ, Jared."

Jared scowls. "What are you even doing here? I'm not exactly in the mood or shape. Come to gloat?" He regrets it, because that's harsher than he normally is with anyone, even when he really kind of hated Jensen, but it's just – Jensen's healthy and almost certain to go on to win and he won't be playing Jared and Jared won't get to play him and everything sucks.

Jensen looks honestly baffled, like that possibility hadn't even occurred to him, and Jared feels his anger dissipate a little. Jensen's face settles into irritation and a little hurt. "Fuck you," he says, then he shakes his head. "Sorry. I know this sucks. But – no. I just–" He makes a helpless sort of frustrated gesture.

Jared sighs and sits back down on the bed, dropping the crutches and gingerly lifting his leg up to lie flat. "Yeah. I was looking forward to playing you again in the final, too. Or are you sure you're not relieved?" He tries for a grin so Jensen knows he's kidding – because he's pretty certain Jensen was looking forward to the two of them playing together again as much as he was, even if he never said as much – but it feels wrong on his face.

Jensen looks a little surprised at that too, though. "Yeah. Yeah, that sucks. We, uh. We make a good game."

"You'll beat Verdasco, easy," offers Jared, not sure where the conversation's going.

Jensen just shrugs, then looks directly at Jared, strange and intense. " _Christ_ ," he says again, and steps right up towards the bed. "Don't fucking – do that." He's breathing fast.

"Do what?"

"Fucking – hurt yourself! Shit! You can't just _fling_ yourself around like that, you're only human, you gotta know your limits or you'll hurt yourself! Like you just did!"

Jared wants to be angry back, like he's arguing with Jensen, except he's not sure what Jensen's pissed about.

"What – I don't understand. What does it matter to you?" He's not actually trying to be rude but Jensen's eyes darken anyway.

"I mean, I can't – I can't–" Jensen stops there, throat working, but Jared gets it.

"Oh," he says. "You don't – like seeing me hurt." He kind of wants to smile.

"Shit," says Jensen, and turns to leave, walks towards the door, but Jared stops him with a shout.

"Hey," he says again, quieter. "That's – cool."

Jensen stops, turns around, but his face is blank and controlled. "Cool."

"Yeah," Jared says. "I mean – I don't know. Nice."

"Nice."

"Yes. Now quit repeating everything I'm saying and say something yourself."

Jensen rubs a palm across his face. "Shit," he says.

"Come here," Jared says – demands, more.

Jensen does, but he looks guarded.

They look at each other. "Why are you so freaked out?" Jared asks bluntly.

Jensen purses his lips and looks away. "Because – we're supposed to be rivals."

"We are, Jensen."

"We're supposed to hate each other!"

"Ah, now that might be a sticking point." Jared grins, can't really help it. "Like I said before, I don't think we ever really hated each other."

Jensen just blows out a breath and starts to turn around again.

"I wanted you to win," Jared says quickly.

"What?" Jensen looks back.

"When you were playing. I wanted you to win. I should have wanted you to lose, right? Less competition for me."

Jensen shrugs. "You said yourself you wanted to play me again, though–"

"Yeah, I thought that. Turns out I just liked seeing you happy."

Jensen pauses. "So – I don't like seeing you hurt, and you like seeing me happy."

Jared grins, watches Jensen's face carefully. "Yeah. All that and we fuck, too. This starting to sound like something familiar to you?" There's something giddy and excited inside him, and he hadn't realized he – sort of wanted this. It feels like it was inevitable, now, this connection finally sliding into something meaningful, and he's excited like it's a first date. He's got a whole new person to learn, if they – if they really do this. Not just fucking, jealousy, rivalry, but something _else_ – there's a whole lot more this has the potential to be.

Jensen doesn't look quite so happy, though. He shakes his head, but it doesn't seem exactly like a denial. He rubs his hand over his face then at the back of his neck, nervous movements Jared's starting to recognize. "I don't – I don't know if I can–"

"What? Jensen. What's stopping you? Why are you so scared of this? You like hating me?"

"No! I just – I don't know. I never _expected_ this. I don't know how to deal with it if – if I can't define it how it was. Rivalry, dislike, attraction, that's it. Stuff that's, you know. Essentially unimportant."

"This was never _unimportant_."

"Yeah, well, I told myself it was. I _expected_ it to be."

"And now you can't deal? Because it didn't go your way?"

Jensen bites his lip and looks almost sheepish. "I just like things to go the way I expect them to."

"Doesn't need to be a bad thing when they don't."

"In my experience, it usually is."

Jared sighs. "Jensen. Jensen! Look at me."

Jensen does. There's uncertainty and some sort of hope in his eyes and he flicks them towards Jared's.

Jared licks his lips, watches as Jensen's gaze slides down almost unconsciously to look. He shrugs. "People spend forever looking for this sort of connection. Shut up, I know it sounds cheesy," he says as Jensen frowns slightly, "but that's what this is. Come on. Let it take you somewhere unexpected. It might be awesome. You might be – I don't know, pleasantly surprised."

Jensen's quiet for a long moment, looking at the floor, and Jared's suddenly scared that Jensen – won't. Isn't brave or hopeful enough to give this a _chance_. That this whole thing will just come to crashing stop right here.

Then Jensen looks up. "One condition."

Jared smiles all stupidly big. "Yeah?"

"You fucking take _care_ of yourself. Seriously. Stop being such a–"

Jensen's words are cut off as Jared reaches out and tugs him in and down and kisses him, firmly and determined, slipping his tongue along Jensen's lips, then in when Jensen opens his mouth into the kiss. Jensen takes a stumbling step and sits down heavily next to him on the bed as Jared pulls him in closer. The movement jars Jared's sore knee and he hisses in a breath, which makes Jensen pull back, frowning worriedly. "Like that! Christ, don't you know the meaning of the words _be careful_ –"

Jared resists the urge to laugh and tell Jensen _he_ wasn't the one being careful then; instead he says, "Aw, aren't you sweet. Now fuck me. Let's consummate this shit," and he pulls Jensen back into a dirty kiss. He sucks on his tongue and Jensen groans before pulling away again.

"Fuck," he breathes, "we can't. Pretty sure that counts as strenuous exercise, Jared, you can't–"

"Fuckin' well can," says Jared, and pushes Jensen away. "Stand up, I'll demonstrate."

Jensen does, looking confused; Jared carefully settles himself comfortably on the bed along the side nearest Jensen, legs flat and steady on the mattress, back propped up on cushions. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of his shorts and wriggles slowly to pull them down to his thighs, and cups his half-hard cock, strokes it lightly to full hardness with a pleased _mmm_ sound, watching as Jensen's gaze zeroes in on his dick and goes dark.

Then Jared forms a fist, deliberately places it at the top of his cock and looks meaningfully at Jensen until Jensen returns his look, eyebrow raised; then he nods back at his hand and very slowly slides it down his shaft.

He can hear Jensen's breath pick up, watches him press the heel of his hand between his legs.

"In case you didn't get it," Jared says with a smirk, "my hand's gonna be your ass."

Jensen looks aroused and amusingly conflicted. "Jared–"

"Fuckin' ride me or stand there and watch me jerk off. I trust you to be careful. " He starts jerking his fist faster up and down on his cock, eyes slipping shut, groaning exaggeratedly; he smirks when he hears Jensen growl, and opens his eyes to see him reach for Jared's wrist to pull his hand away from his dick.

"Pushy, for the guy on his back," says Jensen, but he's pulling off his clothes, kicking away his shoes, gloriously naked and making Jared feel wonderfully dirty as he's nearly fully dressed, just his dick exposed.

"Lube's in the nightstand," he offers, and watches greedily as Jensen grabs it and just stands there, spreads his legs and drops his head down, mouth open as his fingers work behind, opening himself up. Jared watches Jensen's cock rise fully against his belly, and feels dizzy as he says, "Turn around. Let me watch."

"Fuck off," says Jensen, going red across his cheekbones, but then he looks at Jared and _does_. Jared's cock throbs hard and moves slightly against his belly where his shirt's rucked up, leaking as Jared eagerly watches Jensen fingering himself open, so close to his face, Jensen standing and Jared half-lying on the bed. Jensen's slick, glossy-looking fingers disappear inside his asshole, the pale skin of his ass wet and shiny with the messy lube smeared everywhere around his hole. He can feel himself blush with how damn dirty this is.

"Fuck," he bites out, "you gotta be ready. C'mon, c'mon, gotta–"

Jensen's fingers slide out and Jared can't help the needy noise he makes as he sees the pink openness of Jensen's hole for a second before Jensen turns around. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, okay," then looks at the bed with a frown, like he's trying to figure out the best way to go about this, which would make Jared laugh if he weren't dripping all over himself with how bad he needs to be inside Jensen right now.

He rolls his eyes and twists to grab a condom from the nightstand, rolls it on himself while Jensen's biting his lip thoughtfully. "It's not rocket science and I'm not gonna break," he says, and Jensen gives him a look.

"Someone's bitchy," he says, then steps right up to the bed and carefully climbs over Jared, keeping one foot flat on the floor and settling his other knee the other side of Jared's hip.

"Yeah, well, someone – _ah_ ," he says, because Jensen has taken hold of his cock and is slowly lowering himself down.

Jensen's wet and tight; it feels fucking amazing, and the slow pace is driving Jared insane. Jensen grabs at the nightstand with one hand and braces the other right next to Jared's head, fucking himself slowly on Jared's dick. "Oh, fuck, _fuck_ ," he breathes, eyes fluttering shut

Jared pants at the feel of Jensen swallowing him up, that slow, clinging tightness along the full length of his dick, the soft skin of Jensen's ass and thighs meeting Jared's hips.

He reaches a hand up to palm the side of Jensen's face, the slight roughness of stubble against his palm, and he's struck for a second that Jensen's a _man_. He'd sort of – forgotten that, in a way, caught up in the fact Jensen was _Jensen_.

"Open your eyes," he demands, and Jensen does instantly – they're wide and green, his pupils big and dark with lust.

They've fucked quite a few times by now – enough that Jared would say he's intimately acquainted with the look and feel and taste of Jensen's dick, of his whole body – but they've never really looked at each other a whole lot while doing it. It hasn't been intentional, not some awkward avoidance, just a consequence of positions, or finding it easier to bury his face in Jensen's sweaty neck – but now that they are, he thinks maybe it somehow _was_ intentional. Because this is – this is different. This is Jensen looking right at him as he moves carefully up and down. This is Jared tracking every flash of emotion and spasm of arousal flicker across Jensen's face: the tightening of his eyes, the soft, open gasping of his red mouth. This is Jared feeling tight and breathless and strange in his chest and hoping that Jensen feels it too.

"Fuck," he breathes, and it doesn't even nearly encompass everything he's feeling, but–

"Yeah," Jensen breathes back, not taking his eyes off Jared.

Jensen bites his lip and squeezes around Jared, picking up the speed slightly, and now Jared can't keep his eyes open against the shocks of pleasure thrumming through him. Jensen's setting the pace entirely, using the leverage of his foot on the floor and hand on the nightstand to move on top of Jared with minimal bouncing of the mattress – and it's good, the firm steady pushes of his cock sliding deep into Jensen, but it's driving him crazy, too, because there's only so fast Jensen can go and this is _half_ the pace his cock's aching for. Jared tries rocking his hips up needily into it, but his knee flares up a light warning throb as his thighs tense and flex, so he just has to lie there and take it, letting Jensen's deliberate fucking squeeze agonizingly slow pulses of pleasure from him – not enough, not enough.

"Christ, oh, fucking Christ," he gasps. "Can you – ah – fuck – go faster?"

Jensen groans, grinds himself down deep on the next slide down. "No," he says, breathless. "Driving me crazy, too, but – don't wanna hurt you. Plus this – ah, shit – ain't as easy as it looks." He bites his lip and Jared moves his hands to Jensen's thighs, feels the firm heat of them, the straining tenseness as Jensen lifts himself up and back with a groan. "How about–"

Jared opens his mouth, wordless with pleasure, as Jensen _clamps_ down on him, gripping tight as he can on the way down as Jared sinks into that incredible, suffocating grip, then relaxes as he lifts back up, then clenches again on the next downstroke.

Jared curls his toes, and he's abruptly close, tingling in his balls and flushing hot over the back of his neck.

Jensen rocks his head back, pale neck gleaming, shifts his hips until– "Oh," he says with a loud gasp. "Oh – ah – fuck, there–"

Jared's panting open-mouthed, at least until Jensen drops his head back down, then his whole body, bending forward as he keeps riding Jared steadily until his lips drag across Jared's, and then they're kissing with a wet smear of tongues.

Jared remembers his manners, somehow, through the thick haze of pleasure, and slides his hands up from where he'd been gripping Jensen's thigh until he reaches his hard cock, hot and slickly wet from the precome rolling down.

Jensen makes a loud muffled noise into Jared's mouth, and then he's coming, thick pulses over Jared's fingers, and finally his thrusts get a bit more frantic as he rides out the last of his orgasm. And finally, oh, god, it's enough, and Jared bites at Jensen's lower lip as his cock jerks inside him, coming hard, and it's unbearably intense that he can't fuck up harder into Jensen with the pulses of his orgasm; his knee won't let him; he just has to lie there and let the waves wrack his body, moans torn harsh from his throat.

They lie together as they catch their breaths, Jared's cock softening and shifting inside Jensen before Jensen heaves in a breath and slowly lifts himself off. He ties off the condom and throws it in the direction of the trash can, then flops down next to Jared on his back on the bed. They're both splattered with Jensen's come, and it's smeared over Jared's bare belly and caught messy on his t-shirt. He moves around carefully to pull it off, wipes them both off with it, then chucks it across the room.

"So," he says.

"Yeah," Jensen says back, sounding sleepy and fucked-out.

Jared grins and wriggles until he's lying flat on the bed, reaches an arm out until he can get his hand around Jensen's neck and tug him in until he's close enough to kiss – lazy movement of lips, barest brush of tongue. They break apart and Jensen starts to move away, but Jared makes a protesting noise and tugs him back and over slightly until Jensen's almost curled up into his side, head on Jared's chest. That's more like it.

Jensen sighs, sounding long-suffering. "Just because–"

"Because I want to. Don't, I don't know, give me any self-hating crap about how just because we're gay we shouldn't act like _girls_ , or whatever, because that's wrong on so many levels, not to mention–"

Jensen laughs.

"What?"

Jensen shakes his head slightly, hair brushing over Jared's skin. "I was going to ask why I have to be the one all cuddled up and resting my head on your big strong chest. Just cause you're bigger than me?"

"Oh. Well, that's because you make a really awesome little spoon."

"We haven't spooned yet," Jensen points out. "This is our first foray into anything resembling physical affection."

"Well, we'll just have to remedy that, won't we," Jared says, and he starts to shift, but Jensen puts a warning hand on his chest and frowns.

"Not with your knee, you idiot."

Jared grins. That's not a no.

There's silence, then, but it's strangely something comfortable, just the slow, relaxed pleasure of having someone pressed close and warm.

"Think I could get used to this," he says.

Jensen huffs out a little breath as if disdainful, but he's not moving, and Jared's not sure if he's aware he's tracing slow, light patterns on Jared's stomach where his hand lies.

"I don't know. Think I like fighting with you."

Jared grins. "Lies," he says, and cranes his head to look down at Jensen, who glances up. There's a spark of mischief in his eyes, like they're sharing a joke – and just like that, it's easy.


	4. Chapter 4

It's still not quite like any relationship Jared's had even when they start actually spending time together, having conversations, doing things. Not quite dating, but something that could be close. _Hanging out_. There's a certain amount of strange push-pull in the dynamic that he's not used to, because they're both guys; there's no defined roles or behaviours to follow that Jared didn't even realize had been ingrained in him. He used to open doors for girlfriends and automatically take charge in conversations, but now Jensen's very presence completely prevents any of that kind of stuff, because it just wouldn't fit. It's an eye-opener; Jared had always thought he was cool and laid-back and open-minded and a great boyfriend, but even then he'd fallen into a lot of typical take-charge _boyfriend_ behavior patterns. He feels oddly guilty about it.

Not to mention they're both typical sportsmen – a little bit obsessive, a little bit arrogant, a lot stubborn. It makes them great players and great competitors, but not the easiest people to get along with; but they understand each other, at least, and fit together weirdly well.

They don't tell anyone about it. Not their coaches, friends, or family, by mutual unspoken agreement. It's new and different, and if it got out, it wouldn't just be their families' reactions that mattered. They're celebrities in a certain sense of the word, and for all they've made a living from their talent, their ongoing careers depend in no small part on general opinion of the press and public. Being a professional athlete stops being just about the sport the second you put yourself out there with interviews and photoshoots and, most importantly, commercial endorsements and sponsorships. So they have to be careful. For now. No need to rock the boat for something they're only just exploring themselves.

It all feels easier while they're in Australia, though. They stay for a week or two after the Open – which Jensen wins, Jared watching discreetly and wolf-whistling when no one's paying attention. It seems only fair, really – Jared got the US Open, so Jensen gets his turn at this one. Jared kind of forgets there might be other people who stand a chance; between them they keep scooping them up, both of them talented on all surfaces even if they have their preferences, and determined and good enough that even the players who specialise struggle to to actually win.

He sort of considers the Grand Slams as _theirs_ , and the thought's hilariously romantic. It helps distract Jared from the bitter resentment that wants to creep up in the back of his mind that it could've been him. That he didn't even get to try for it.

The summer's thick and hot and neither of them want to go back to the wintry Northern hemisphere, especially as they're both heading to colder, dreary states – Jensen's got some sponsorship photoshoot which Jared ribs him about, and Jared's going to a specialist physiotherapist in Pennsylvania. Right now, in these last few days, it sort of feels like they've made their own little world, and it's nice. It can't last forever – Jared would start to itch for change, to get back playing, and too much time with one person, even in the first flush of whatever this is, is never a good thing. But for this week or two – it's kind of perfect.

Dusk is falling over the city and they're in Jensen's hotel room with the screen doors to the little balcony flung open, though they're inside, television on low. The air that breezes in is warm and fragrant, mixing with the air-conditioned room. The smell of vegetation and cigarette smoke hangs in the air from outside, along with the low roar of city traffic.

"What are we going to–" says Jensen, waving a hand in the air in Jared's direction. They're sitting close but not draped all over each other; they mostly only touch each other like that after sex. Partly because this is still fairly new, partly because this whole thing feels easy enough that Jared doesn't need the forced affectionate touching that characterized a lot of his earlier relationships as some kind of validation. They don't need that; maybe it's because this is still barely defined.

He knows what Jensen's trying to say. "When we get back?" Which is tomorrow.

"Yeah."

Jared shrugs, moves his foot along to nudge idly at Jensen's. "Whatever we can. You know – see how it goes. We'll be in the same place pretty often with, you know, events, so."

He doesn't know if Jensen was expecting more or less commitment or planning, but he looks happy with that, eyes soft and shoulders relaxed. He looks good, curled up close to Jared all warm and soft-looking, and the knowledge that Jared could just push him down and fuck him at any point is thrilling.

"If we keep discreet for now," he says. Not like Jensen has suggested that they wouldn't be, but he wants to make sure they're on the same page. Jensen understands; his image is even more established than Jared's.

"Yeah, course."

"Just – when we can. And we don't have to hide just hanging out. Anyway, it'll be interesting if people know we're friends, after they were pushing the whole rivalry thing."

Jensen grins. "You say that like we weren't rivals. _Aren't_."

"Yeah, well. Weird to call you my rival."

"We are, though. Make sure you remember that next time we're both on court."

Jared laughs at that. "Nothing to worry about, Jensen, I'm gonna kick your ass twice as hard next time just to prove that this is not going to make me go any easier on you."

Jensen grins at that, looks relieved, which in turn makes Jared relieved, that Jensen didn't want this to make the game any less important to them, because neither did he.

"Kick my ass like you did in London, you mean?" Jensen says with a daring smirk.

Jared scowls at him, but it doesn't irritate him as much as he'd have thought – he's more irritated at the fact he didn't win than at Jensen personally. "This year. You just watch out, old man."

Jensen looks away at that, and sighs. "Yeah, I'm feeling that."

Jared does touch him, then, hand on his shoulder. "Hey, I was kidding. You're not old, Christ."

Jensen looks at him, then, eyes clear and honest and Jared shivers because Jensen's letting him in and it feels good. "I feel it, Jared, you know. I haven't got that long left in me."

Jared shakes his head. "You've got a whole lot more left than you think. Christ, Jensen, you're – _formidable_ out there. If you're too old, then I'm, I don't know."

Jensen raises an eyebrow. "Young and with the whole world ripe for the taking."

Jared squirms. That's just the feeling that terrifies him, if he digs into it, because there is so much for him to take, still, and so much he's already got. He works his ass off, but he knew a lot of people who worked just as hard and didn't get this sort of chance. The more success he gets, the more it feels like maybe he's faking it – like deep down he's just this hopeful kid, and he'll be caught out, told he can't have this any more. Rationally, he knows you can't fake winning matches, and that he deserves what he's worked for, but there's always that fear. That maybe it's all been luck, maybe the next match will be where his true colors come out, and he'll be _exposed_. All that potential he has left to take will just crumble away.

He bites his lip. "Yeah, maybe. That's what kinda – scares me. Like I've reached the end of my – luck, just as everyone's expecting the most."

"Luck? Jared. What you have isn't luck. It's talent and determination. You can't coast by on _luck_."

He looks at Jensen, because Jensen deserves this, and maybe it feels good to tell this to someone who doesn't have a real stake in his own success like Jeff does. "I know, in the sensible bits of my brain – but sometimes I'm scared that's all it is, and then I'm going to just crash."

Jensen raises an eyebrow. "Scared? Jared, you're like – the least afraid person I know."

Jared raises one right back. "Because everything you present to the world is exactly what you feel on the inside, right?"

Jensen kisses him, then, and it's softer than any kiss they've shared yet, and they don't actually fuck again before Jensen leaves in the morning for his earlier flight; they just drift off to sleep as the warm evening air blows over them.

* * *

Things are pretty much like Jared said they would be, after that. Jensen doesn't actually see him a whole lot for a month or so after they get back, because Jared's recuperating back at home in Texas after his physio appointment, while Jensen keeps on playing, training, all the usual stuff that makes up his life. He finds time to visit his own family down there and sees Jared, but it's a slightly awkward visit. His family clearly doesn't quite understand this new friendship, and Jensen doesn't know how quite to act, and of course they don't get a chance to fuck. But Jared looks grateful, both for Jensen's presence and updates on what's going on in the tennis word from a player's perspective rather than the media, and he seems lit up anew with a fire to get back out there.

"Not too soon," Jensen says. "Don't hurt yourself again, idiot." Jared nods. Jared's mother looks at Jensen more approvingly.

Jensen's off to Europe tomorrow for a tournament – a smaller one, but he does a few of them each year; points always help. "When you going to be next playing?"

Jared shrugs. "Dunno. Play it safe and be a month or so yet. Long as I'm good for France."

"Better be."

\--

It comes around a lot quicker than Jensen anticipated – one minute it seems he's in Europe, telling himself it's stupid to miss Jared; the next, they're meeting up in California for Indian Wells and fucking with a desperation that he can't ignore or deny. Then it's May and they're on a plane heading towards Paris, Roland Garros imminent. Next chance for a Grand Slam final that, right now, they both have a shot at.

Jared's restless and excited in the seat next to him, and Jensen's starting to regret them meeting up in L.A where they'd both been nearby, spending a couple of days there and heading over to France together to spend another couple days there before the whole thing kicks off. They're in business class, but Jared still looks squeezed into his seat, long legs splayed everywhere. His fingers tap tap tap on the arm and he's rambling on, something about the various places he has and hasn't been in France and where he should _totally_ take Jensen, like the fact he's been there on vacation a couple times as a kid gives him authority to act as a tourist guide when they should be thinking about tennis.

Jensen sighs. "If we weren't in public, I would physically shut you up."

Jared stops at that, grins. "Now that sounds fun."

"I was thinking more my fist than my lips, but that's still fun for me." But Jensen's smiling because he can't ever seem to actually get mad at him, now. It's worrying. Sometimes he's lying next to Jared and it's so hard, nearly impossible to remember what it felt like to hate him. Seems unfathomable.

In the three months since Australia, things have been good. They've kept it discreet, just friends to other eyes, and even that had been enough to raise eyebrows. Jim's bemused but fairly approving of the whole friendship thing, and from what Jared's said, his coach is similar. Jim did make sure to ask if he was sure Jared wasn't just _infiltrating_ in order to know Jensen and his game better so he'd have a chance of beating him, and Jensen laughed and called him a paranoid freak – though it did occur to him that if either of them were so inclined, they'd have a psychological advantage over the other that most players don't have.

It's been noticed in the sports media, their friendship, and actually seems to have done them both good; it makes them look mature, being friends with their biggest rivals, and the American media in particular loves it because it shows a _united American front_ , though it's interesting when both the guys they root for have to compete against each other.

Some people think it's all faked, and that underneath it all they actually hate each other violently, which has become a sort of joke between them when they're alone. "I _would_ blow you, except you know, I hate you, remember?" Jensen might say with a smirk – or when Jared gets all sleepy and soft and affectionate after sex and folds himself around Jensen, he'll stroke his fingers down Jensen's arm and murmur, "Good thing we're mortal enemies, or this would really be way too sappy for you, right?"

That's mostly the tone of things between them: _easy_ , easier than Jensen ever expected and he spends half his time reminding himself he's not allowed to freak out about that. He hates it when other people try and blame their own fucking-up in relationships on things as lame as _daddy issues_ , but it's just – unexpected things remind him of his dad. Because everything in Jensen's life had been planned, structured, hoped for, and that had been the biggest wrench thrown into the works: his dad getting sick and dying so quickly. It hadn't destroyed Jensen, but it had turned him around way more than he'd – well, expected, and been prepared for, and he's just found it easier to keep things careful, from then on. Never do anything that might spin out of control, especially in his personal life. His game's always been tight and meticulously managed and precise, strategies running through it like it's a game of chess, and he just tries to keeps everything like that. It calms him.

It doesn't escape his notice that in his match against Jared, there'd been no room for strategy or planning, just playing playing _playing_ , and it had been the best he'd ever played. And in this – in whatever they're doing now, it's unexpected at every turn, and he's just starting to believe that – yeah, maybe surprises can be good. Really good.

He grins over at Jared, for no other reason than he can, and the mix of purely happy and deviously sexy in Jared's return smile has Jensen pulling Jared into the bathrooms before they even claim their baggage for a quick and dirty blowjob after they land.

\--

It's strange, spending time with Jared before the competition starts, just a few days being tourists, because Jensen's getting nervous, excited, and wants to be focusing on tennis, practicing, holing himself up with Jim. He's also quite happy, though, like he always seems to be, to spend time with just Jared. They make pretty good tourist partners, too; they both have interests – Jared's into architecture and history, which Jensen says is boring and dry, whereas Jensen loves the art and cultures of the many countries they actually visit – but don't often get to spend time outside of a court in – and Jared calls him a pansy; but they go along with each other. Then Jensen that night tends to show Jared just how well this pansy can suck his dick, and Jared demonstrates how he's generally the opposite of _dry and boring_ in bed.

And then out of nowhere, Jensen will look at Jared and see his _rival_.

Once the competition gets underway, they don't see much of each other; they're training, spending intensive time with their coaches, and of course, diving into the matches.

They fuck after Jensen wins his quarter-final, following Jared's own victory in his, a couple hours snatched in another bland hotel room.

"Good luck in your semi-final," gasps Jared as he undulates, riding Jensen's dick enthusiastically. "By which I mean, you better fucking win, because I'm going to smash Nadal into the ground in mine and I'll be waiting for you on the court for the final, and if you're not the one coming out–"

"What?" says Jensen, fingers bracketing Jared's hips and he grins at Jared's self-assurance, mainly because he kind of shares it. There's no way he's giving up this chance to play Jared again; there's not the same urgency there was behind it as in Wimbledon, but he wants – hell, fucking _needs_ to have a game like that; he's giddy for it, for that fire, for meeting Jared's blazing eyes over the court. It _has_ to happen, at this point.

"If you don't, I won't fuck you for like, three weeks."

"And if we – ah – do play each other?"

"Whoever wins gets to top." Jared groans low and squeezes deliciously around Jensen.

"Aw, c-come on, now, that's not fair," manages Jensen. Much as he _loves_ this, loves Jared squeezing around him, loves how demanding and writhing and pushy and wanting Jared gets, there's pretty much nothing better than when Jared holds him down and pounds into him, and Jared knows it.

Jared laughs, breathless and happy. "Fine, fine – winner gets, ah, ah, to demand – blowjobs on tap."

"Deal," gasps Jensen, even though neither of them ever begrudges a blowjob. He grins bright at Jared until his eyes roll back into his head as Jared rocks and grinds deeper onto him, and there's pretty much no room left for rational thought.

\--

After all that, there's really no surprise when they both smash through their semi-finals, and suddenly the whole competition, for players and audience and the rest of the world watching, has a new edge to it, because a lot of people were hoping for this showdown again. Jensen's torn between annoyed and amused that it's almost become more than the game for the eyes of people watching – all about their rivalry, their friendship, whether it's real or not; whether this might affect it – it's like a goddamn soap opera out there.

They decide not to spend the night before the final together, because they need to be players tomorrow, not anything else, and a bit of distance seems like a good idea; Jensen's gotta train his brain into looking at Jared's strong arms and thinking about the serves and spins and shots they can deliver and how to return them, how to win.

'Course, at Wimbledon he remembers being more than a little distracted by thinking about all the things that body could do off the court, and he still won. Thing is, he now knows in detail just what it could do, and that's more of a distraction than even he'd be able to cope with, so he's gotta cut it off at the source. Just while they're out there. They can fuck each other's brains out afterwards.

They bump into each other before the match, but there are people everywhere, so Jensen just smoothly shakes his hand, opens his mouth to wish him luck.

As Jared's hand closes warm around his, Jensen's struck by the sensation of words crowding on his tongue, and he's reminded of that psychological advantage; knows a hundred things he could say to knock Jared off balance, undermine his confidence, confuse him, screw him up just that tiny bit enough to twist him from his focus, and he knows he could have the game in the bag – because in a game like this if you've got an inch, you take it, and he could.

Jared's – Jared; but this is a Grand Slam, and who knows if it's Jensen's last chance before Jared just gets slightly better and Jensen slightly older and he won't have this any more. What if this is his last real chance at the title? There's the trophy, and the points, and the huge lump of money, not to mention prestige and that indescribable _feeling_ – and right here, in his fucking hand, is a way to make it all the more likely to be his.

He nods at Jared. "Good luck," he says, and turns to go find Jim, go over a few things before the game, except before he gets there he has to duck inside and sit down. He doesn't know if he's more scared by the fact he had that thought, or of the fact that without more than a split second's _maybe_ , he didn't take the chance. And the tug in his chest tells him it wasn't his sportsman's integrity – though it's there – telling him he needs to win on his own merits; no, it's the picture of what Jared would look like if he'd said something. Of what hurt might look like spreading over his face; confusion clouding his eyes, maybe, then a tug down of his mouth, resignation, dark furrowing of his brow. It hurts in a sick, low ache to even think about it. Jensen could never do that. Fuck tennis. Fuck the game.

There aren't many things that can make Jensen say, _fuck tennis_.

Oh shit, he thinks vaguely. I guess I'm falling in love.

He smiles. Maybe he's screwed, but – it feels good. Because isn't love supposed to feel good? He rubs a hand over his face, wipes away his grin, pushes down the fear and the giddy lightness in his chest, because he's playing in ten minutes and he needs to think about tennis.

\--

The realization makes him play incredibly. He's confident and happy and feels like he's skimming the ground. Which is a helpful way to feel in a tennis match because it makes him think he can reach the highest and furthest of balls, and mostly if you think you can, you _can_. Jensen's learned well the way that an athlete's worst enemy is his mind, not his body.

He's leading Jared around the court hard, and Jared looks viciously pleased with it, with each return he fights for, and Jensen's pleased for him, pleased for himself, giddily happy with the whole thing.

Jared successfully employs some killer, well-timed lobs and breaks Jensen's serve twice, enough to get the first set, but it just feels right, the balance between them, and Jensen can't predict how it's going to end. He doesn't want to. He's pumped-up and nervous, but it doesn't have the same edge of desperation it did back when this started, back in Wimbledon. He knows he's playing well, and right now, that's enough.

Not that he doesn't want to win, of course.

Jared glances over at him from the other side of the umpire's chair when they take their quick break to wipe damp faces and chug some water; he gives Jensen a quick eye-roll and pulls a face that means _stop making this so difficult!_

Jensen just raises his eyebrows challengingly, and grins.

Jared purses his lips a little against a grin, and Jensens just knows he's resisting sticking out his tongue. He's struck then by the urge to go closer, right up to Jared and run his hand through his thick hair and tug him in for a playful kiss; to whisper that he's a dork and kind of wonderful and Jensen's falling in love with him. But he tears his eyes away and stares at the ground instead, because he can't, of course.

He rubs a hand across his chest because something pangs at that, in some faintly achy way. It's stupid – even if he could, he wouldn't, because this is the most inappropriate venue for that stuff, anyway – Jared's out on the court as his rival; it's all tennis, here. But he'd seen his _Jared_ so strongly for a moment, the cognitive dissonance jarring; the abrupt and harsh quelling of a desire.

He breathes in deep, that scent of sweat and rubber and deep earth of the clay courts, and gets back into the game. He loves Jared, but that's not what's relevant right now – right now it matters that he loves the _game_.

The cheers of the crowd swell and rumble as they start out for the next set, and the umpire has to call for quiet a couple of times before they settle. Jensen looks around and really takes note, for the first time, of the size and energy of the crowd – the tennis world has been waiting for a rematch between him and Jared almost as eagerly as they had been, and he's not going to disappoint. He catches Jared's eyes across the net as he pulls a ball from his pocket and squeezes it gently in his hand; it's good to serve. Jared just looks back, steadily, and Jensen thinks, _you're good, but I'm still going to win this. Give me a challenge_.

Jared sways slowly from foot to foot, balanced and strong and ready, face set and confident. _Challenge right here, buddy._

Jensen serves, and the game ratchets up a notch into the speed he remembers from Wimbledon, like they'd been warming up during the first set. Jensen plays as carefully and precisely as he ever has; as he _can_ , when a good portion of his energy is just returning and controlling the powerful balls Jared slams at him. But Jensen's played Jared, now, and remembers it vividly, not to mention the hours he's watched him, and the discussions they've had over the last few months that have inevitably tuned to their games. He _knows_ Jared's game, and he manipulates that mercilessly, because that's just fair – Jared has the very same advantage back at him.

It works for a few games, Jared turned around just enough by the weaknesses Jensen plays to, and he throws exasperated looks over the net, but they're tempered by a certain awareness – _I know you're doing this on purpose but I can't blame you, you sneaky little fucker_. Jared gets canny quickly, because if Jensen's playing to certain of Jared's weaknesses that automatically means his own game has become slightly predictable, and Jared uses that – but Jensen still grabs up the second set fairly easily, to Jared's scowl.

They brush shoulders as they pass each other to change ends, a grounding, reassuring touch – and it's not like Jensen was really worried that Jared would be pissed if Jensen beat him, but still.

Jared comes back ferociously, this time using Jensen's trick of going for his weaknesses now he's gotten himself on an even footing, and it's exhausting and wonderful; they fight each game to the bitter end, and the crowd shouts along with each point. This is the kind of tennis Jensen wishes he could play every single match, even though it's mentally and physically draining. It's the best feeling, and it's somehow better now he knows Jared so well. That thrill of unwanted desire had been heady and new at Wimbledon, mixing with the excitement of the game; but this is better, with the slow, building knowledge that all this adrenaline and energy and competition is definitely going to be let out in some energetic fucking afterwards, with that gorgeous fucking body that he knows every inch of.

He half wants the game to be over quicker so he can get to that part – but that's a slippery slope of distraction, so he pushes the thought away, even as his mouth goes dry watching Jared stretch up to serve, the long, graceful unfurling. _Eye on the fucking ball, Jensen_ , and it's Jim's voice in his head even though Jim doesn't quite know why he'd be distracted by Jared in that way.

They're both tiring a little quicker than they did back at Wimbledon, but that was a level of energy Jensen had no real idea how they maintained. Jared's starting to make a couple sloppy mistakes, which Jensen exploits hard as he can, but he's far from perfect himself, and he swears as he double-faults.

They settle into a fast-paced rhythm, close and tense, but Jensen pulls ahead a bit, tips the balance to get a little bit of breathing space. It's a surprise when they're in the fourth set and Jensen's just thinking, _If I win this one_ – when the umpire announces _Match point_. Shit, thinks Jensen, _Championship_ point. He hadn't realised it had tipped so close.

Jared's eyes widen as Jensen bounces the ball in readiness to serve, and Jensen can read his face almost like Jared's whispering to him. _Well played_ , he's saying, _don't you dare fucking beat me again, don't you dare fuck this up and throw this away when it's so close_.

Jensen doesn't plan to fuck this up; he's never regretted being likely to beat his opponent before, but he also knows neither he nor Jared would forgive him if he let that interfere.

It's an ace, and Jared drops his racket, drops his shoulders and his face from Jensen's sight for a cold second that's more important to Jensen than the distant realisation he just won the French Open. The crowd's roaring around them, but it seems oddly faint, because Jensen can't see Jared's face and he needs to–

Jared looks up, and he looks pissed and defeated and tired but okay. He nods and heads over towards the net just as Jensen realizes he's already there, net pressing into his body. Jared's in dark blue, and it looks so good against his smooth, damp skin that Jensen wants nothing more than to hide him away, take his clothes slowly off and taste every inch underneath; that'll have to wait.

Jared takes his hand and then they're both pulling the other in for a fierce, fast hug. Jensen wants to apologize, but then Jared's grinning at him. "Good one," he says. "You fucker, aren't you going to let me have anything?"

There's a trace of bitterness in the words, but Jared's still meeting his eyes directly, and Jensen recognizes it's not aimed at him. His shoulders relax. "You played well," he says, "you–"

Jared shakes his head. "Shut up. You deserved that. I'm proud of you," he says, that last bit quiet and careful, and Jensen has to bite back a smile. He drops Jared's hand and he's swept off by the buzz and excitement – Jim's slapping him on the back, there are reporters to talks to, all sorts of stuff to deal with, but all Jensen really wants to do is find Jared and curl up with him – talk about the match, about anything, about everything.

"Yeah," he says in answering an interviewers' question, "it was an amazing match. I hoped I'd get to play Jared again, I play best against him – he's incredible. He deserves this as much as I do, it just happened this way." It's pretty much the only thing that's entirely true that he trots out in all of his pat responses to questions in the interviews that he's forced into. It's also the quote that'll be all over the blogs, he's pretty sure, because everyone's fascinated by his and Jared's friendship.

It's big, he knows it's big, because it's the first time he's won this Grand Slam, and this competition is widely watched, considered the most difficult of the majors, and he's joined the ranks of the few that win both Wimbledon with its fast grass courts and the French Open with its slower clay courts – he knows this, and he's been told it over and over, by an excitable coach and awed reporters and yet it still doesn't seem as big as Wimbledon did.

Maybe it's because he has a personal affection for Wimbledon, or maybe because he's not utterly obsessed with beating Jared the way he was last July. His obsession's still Jared, just – in a different way. Not Jared in relation to tennis, to competition, just – Jared. He had to beat Jared to win this, and he was happy he did but that part doesn't feel _good_. All this should be scary, but he can't help smiling. Like he's always been waiting for this thing to come along to be that little bit more important than the game. Something to separate his life from his career.

That's a pretty big step, though. Thinking of Jared as part of his _life_ , in some meaningful, lasting way; he pushes that down and doesn't let himself get nervous as he bangs on Jared's door. Dusk is falling across Paris, and Jensen's not even sure Jared's in here; maybe he's out, drowning his sorrows. It's not like Jensen has any right to expect to find him here waiting.

Jared opens the door, though.

"Hey," says Jensen. He wants to say something, but he's worried. _Are you alright?_ seems patronising and rude; even _Can I come in?_ too presumptuous, so he just raises his eyebrows.

Jared smiles, though, and steps back. "Hey," he says.

Jensen steps in, then stands there awkwardly, not sure what to say. "Um," he says, then laughs at the same time Jared does. "Sorry, god. Just – weird trying to adjust back from being rivals, to – this."

Jared nods. He seems tense, but okay, and not in a way where he's trying to hide it from Jensen.

Jensen decides to screw worrying. "Are you alright?" he asks.

Jared rolls his eyes a little. "I'm a big boy, I can handle losing. I mean, I'm not bouncing off the walls in happiness, but – yeah, I'm okay. I don't want you to leave, if that's what you're worried about."

"A little – but I also want to know, you know, just for you. I give a shit."

Jared nods again. "Yeah. I'm okay. I'm pissed off and annoyed at myself, but I know I played my best and I know it's not my last chance."

"You deserved it, Jared. You were really, really good, I–"

But Jared's frowning and shaking his head. "Don't – don't try and make me feel better, it'll just make me irritated and I don't want to be pissed at you because that's not fair. Just let me be pissed I lost this, even though I was so close, just let me ride it out and know it's not about you. You definitely deserved it – congratulations, by the way. You played amazingly." He grins, a sharp flash, and it's genuine. "Everything else aside, I enjoyed every second. Like before. We play well together, man."

"That we do. Even if you're a fucking distraction."

Jared frowns, confused, until Jensen rakes his eyes slowly up and down Jared's body – just in t-shirt and soft sweatpants, but looking just as fucking delicious as when he was in his well-fitting dark tennis gear earlier that day; the way the material falls and gently reveals the shape of his body makes Jensen's mouth water.

Jared smirks knowingly. "You make a damn pretty distraction out there, yourself," he says.

"Think we deserve a reward for playing under such adverse conditions."

"You think?"

"Oh y–"

But Jensen's cut off by Jared's mouth, firm and demanding, Jared's body hard and warm pressed against him; Jensen melts against him eagerly. He runs a hand over Jared's back, feels the shift of sleek muscles underneath as Jared moves to grab at Jensen's head, and fuck, it's only been about a few days since they last fucked, but Jensen has missed this.

Jared bites at his lip, fast and hard; harder than he's bitten Jensen since that first frantic encounter after Wimbledon, and it makes Jensen hiss in a breath as his heart races.

Jared manhandles them over to the bed then shoves Jensen down on it, clambers right over him and tears his shirt off before Jensen can get his breath back.

They kiss hard again, Jared's tongue pressing deep into Jensen's mouth before he pulls away and bites down to Jensen's neck, teeth scraping a light trail over the soft ridges of Jensen's throat and Jensen arches his head back into the pillow, breath coming fast.

Jared's rougher than he normally is, and Jensen likes it, but it's notable. He gasps as Jared bites at his nipple, firming it up between his teeth. "Not about me, huh?" he asks, trying to get his breathing back under control, but he's mostly teasing. Jared moves back to his mouth, kisses him hard then pulls back, grins brightly.

"Maybe it's a little bit about you. You can't blame me, I can't separate you into two different people that easy. Call this my revenge," and he goes back to Jensen's nipple until it's throbbing. Jensen just presses a hand to the back of Jared's head, because sometimes, oh fuck, he loves this. That edge of pain bleeding into pleasure, just enough to make the adrenaline thrum through his body. He's dizzy with it.

"Fuck, you can get revenge on me whenever you want."

"You like that, huh?" says Jared, low and intense, and scrapes his teeth down Jensen's chest again, leaving a hot, sparking trail of bright soreness that makes Jensen feel lit up all over.

"I, uh–"

Jensen shuts up, then, because Jared's curling his hands into Jensen's waistband, fingernails leaving hot little streaks on his hips, and tugging his pants and underwear down to mid-thigh so he can get at Jensen's cock; he just swallows it right down, hot and immediate and wonderful.

Jensen shifts his hips, can't help it; Jared's throat is bumping soft at the head of his cock and god, he wants so badly to just fuck up into that. But Jared drops a heavy arm over Jensen's hips, holds him down as he drives Jensen crazy. He swallows Jensen just into his throat then pulls off with fluttering licks up the shaft, then dipping into the slit; he wriggles it right in, where Jensen's spilling precome, and it's white-hot and weird and amazing and Jensen gasps and throws his own arm over his face, feeling raw and desperate.

"C'mon," he pleads, muffled but goddamn heartfelt, because Jared is giving him enough to drive him crazy but not enough to get him anywhere, and when he feels the low vibrations of Jared's slow laugh around his cock – way sexier than it should be, Christ – he knows he's doing it on purpose.

He pants and curls his toes. "C'mon, Jared, please. Just fucking – god, fuck, I'll, ah, throw the next damn match if you'll just–"

Jared pulls off with a slickly loud _pop_. "Don't fucking joke," he growls, lips moving against the thin skin of Jensen's hip, and Jensen's about to say, _Well, don't fuckin' tease_ , when Jared goes for it – swallows him down, all the way, then keeps his nose pressed to Jensen's belly and swallows around him once, twice, then his huge hand is squeezing gently at Jensen's balls, and he's fucking done.

Jared pulls off, still sucking, as Jensen comes in long, amazing pulses that shudder through his body, his thighs aching with the pleasure of it. Jared spits his mouthful of come into his hand, then shoves Jensen's legs wider apart with his other hand and starts slicking up Jensen's hole with his own come.

Jensen can't quit decide if that's hot or gross, but he's feeling too wonderfully lax and satisfied after that blowjob to care, just helpfully cants his hips up so Jared has a better angle to fuck in gently with a finger, then two, then three, getting his tongue wet and sloppy and eager into the mix.

The stimulation feels awesome, but Jensen's wiped after that fucking _game_ and emotions and orgasm, so he has to blink to make sure he doesn't drift off, biting back a grin at wondering how scandalized Jared would look.

It's easier to stay awake when Jared pushes his leg up against his chest and starts sliding in, bare, Jensen's come and Jared's spit and precome all mixing to slick the way, though there's still a significant stretch. It still feels good, and _fuck_ , yeah, Jared's cock is so fat and hot in him, pounding him harder and harder and Jared's breath gets shorter and his moans more broken.

"Yeah, fuck, yeah," says Jensen, mindlessly; his cock's still mostly soft against his thigh, he's way too drained to get hard again, but he's not faking the moans and whimpers Jared's pushing from him on each thrust in, and pleasure is shuddering through him nicely.

"Jesus fucking–" Jared goes silent as he comes, hips grinding in deep little circles, and his face is tucked in to Jensen's shoulder, teeth bared and pressed hard against his skin but not biting down.

Jensen tugs at the covers as Jared slides out and gets them cleaned up, then jerks his head to get Jared to climb back in the bed, let Jensen draw the covers over them. They're both warm and sweating and the room isn't cold, but Jensen likes the stuffy warmth of both of them close and covered; he's relaxed and feeling good. "Better?" he says drowsily, as Jared settles in.

Jared huffs a little laugh. "Yeah, bitch." They're silent for a while, but it's comfortable. Jensen's tired but not quite there, yet, pulled back from the fuzzy line of sleep; just happy to drift in the loose buzzing warmth and deep good ache of exertion in his limbs.

He kind of wants to talk about the match – because he always wants to do that, rehash his latest match, and it's something he's loved doing with Jared because it's someone whose opinion he gives a shit about and someone who _gets_ it in a way not even Jim can; he's not quite sure if it's a little too soon after that outcome.

Jared beats him to the punch, though. "Fucking hate clay courts," he mutters, and Jensen has to grin.

"They're a bitch, alright. You gotta use tricks other than speed, work on the spin."

"I know how to fucking work different courts, you know," says Jared, but there's a teasing edge to his voice and he shifts so they can look at each other properly as they talk; they sink into a discussion of the match, and it's satisfying and fascinating to really go over a match in detail with the actual guy he was playing against. It gives him a brand new sort of insight, and they talk for ages until Jensen interrupts himself with a huge yawn.

Jared grins, but his eyes are drifted half-shut too. "I tire you out?"

Jensen pokes him half-heartedly. "I tired you out, too. We play each other pretty damn hard."

Jared leers at that, of course. "Now that we do. I'm pretty good at handling balls – hitting the _sweet spot_."

Jensen tries not to laugh, but he can't help it. "You spend like ninety percent of your life handling and talking about _balls_. I really would've thought the innuendo would've died by now."

"What can I say, you give me my dirty mind back."

Jensen shakes his head. "Whatever. What I was saying, before you went all teenage boy on me, was that I can't get over just how hard you make me play. You're lucky I had enough energy left to fuck."

"You didn't, you just kind of lay there."

"Fuck you."

"Yes, please. But – yeah. I know. It's kind of crazy. It's all the sexual tension, man, we just convert it to extra energy. They should look into us as an alternative power source."

Jensen grins. "I'll get right on that."

"Wasn't quite as crazy as Wimbledon, though. I mean – fuck, it was better than any other match I've played since then, but it still wasn't quite that insane."

"I think I'm glad – another match like that, as _long_ as that, would've killed me."

"Maybe it's Wimbledon. Maybe this year it'll be that crazy again. And I'm not even _thinking_ that we might not both make the final again, by the way."

"Fair enough. Hey, maybe we only play our best insane game when we secretly want to fuck each other's brains out."

Jared rolls up onto an elbow at that, so he can look down at Jensen and raise an eyebrow. "I _do_ want to fuck your brains out. I just _did_."

"No, I mean – it's only secret from everyone else, but not from each other. So there's less tension. So less insanity in the playing," Jensen points out.

Jared puts his other elbow the other side of Jensen's head, so he's braced right above him, body twisting up gracefully, and he's all Jensen can see. Jared's eyes flick slowly over Jensen's face until Jensen has to stop himself squirming. "What?" he says.

Jared just grins, then ducks down sudden to kiss him, soft give of warm lips. "You're kind of awesome, you know."

"You don't have to be romantic just because we're in Paris, you know."

Jared laughs. "Yeah. I'm not."

"Yeah. You're kind of awesome, too."

Jensen's saying something else underneath that, and he thinks maybe Jared is, too.

Jared falls asleep first, and Jensen watches him for a while, a stripe of moonlight lying across the bed, illuminating half his face; the sharp curve of his cheekbone, the delicate line of his eyelashes.

He can almost _feel_ himself falling for him, an echo like vertigo when he looks at Jared. Everything rational tells him the deeper he falls, the more painful it's going to be when he hits the ground; the harder it will be to climb out – but it just feels so damn good right now he doesn't care.

Maybe he should have faith in this, in Jared, because he hasn't actually let him down yet. It hasn't gone wrong yet. And maybe – hell, maybe it's just going to get better and better. He feels like there's a change coming, something _more_ , something real, because there's a growing importance to the feelings between them, and Jensen doesn't know what exactly is going to happen, but he's ready, wanting, for once letting himself be excited for an unknown future, for whatever the next step for them is.

* * *

Jared tips his head back and smiles as the plane touches down in England. Life is good, and next week, Wimbledon starts again, and he's – content.

Jensen's flying in tomorrow and they're going to spend some time together before preparing for the competition, like they did in France, and Jared can't wait, because things with Jensen are – kind of amazing. Exactly what he needs; they've settled into something he could keep up forever, and he's never really felt that before. It's just them, and they don't need anything more, as long as they get to spend enough time together away from the rest of the world. It's amazing.

He's thought about telling Jeff more – the truth, he guesses – but there hasn't been enough of a reason to, yet. Jeff wouldn't be angry, or react badly, he's pretty sure, but he wouldn't _get_ it, and there's the potential for a whole other can of worms to wriggle open if one other person knows, because right now they don't need to trust anyone to keep it secret; it just is.

And right now, that's what he's happy with. Secret. It wouldn't _add_ anything to how it is for this to go public – not anything good anyway. Just a bunch of weird publicity and questions and assigned motivations, when all he wants to do is play tennis and fuck his – okay, his boyfriend. If you can call Jensen that when no one else knows.

He can't think about dealing with the fallout. It would – affect things. He just wants to be known for his tennis, wants to keep on playing and winning because that's, at the root, what's most important; it has to be.

\--

They're at a cafe in London a few days later – first time Jensen has managed to drag Jared out of bed into being tourists, which was the original plan.

Jared squints out at the hazy sun and sips his coffee. They're somewhere along the South Bank, and Jared can see St. Paul's Cathedral from where he's sitting. He grins as Jensen gestures around them.

"See," he's saying, "this is worth getting up for!"

Jared shrugs lazily. "I don't know. Think I preferred the view I got back in the room."

Jensen looks at him. "You can't compare my dick to St. Paul's Cathedral."

Jared doesn't even know where to start responding to that, so he opts for accidentally snorting coffee through his nose, he's laughing so hard.

Jensen sighs, all long-suffering, and thumps him on the back until Jared's calmed down. "Can't take you anywhere," he says.

Jared grins. "You love me." Maybe it should feel weirder saying that. They – haven't, really. Said that. But it feels truer than he'd realized, now he has.

Jensen just smiles at him. "I guess."

Jared tilts his head, moves his hand across the table so he can nudge his fingers against Jensen's lightly. "Missed you."

Jensen moves his fingers back against Jared's, slips them just over. "Y–"

They're interrupted by a muffled squeal from a table nearby, followed by craning necks and then a group of people shyly approaching their table.

Jared pulls his hand back so quickly he nearly upsets his cup of coffee, and Jensen shoots him a strange look as he more leisurely pulls his hand back.

Jared smiles up at the people now at their table, scanning their faces for any signs they saw him and Jensen practically _holding hands_ , but the eagerness in their faces seems pretty standard.

"You're – Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki, right?" says one girl, who blushes as the people with her laugh, and Jared chuckles along. "Sorry," she says, "obvious, but – wow!"

"It's us, alright," says Jared, sticking a hand out, and she takes it eagerly.

"In the flesh," adds Jensen, and she takes his hand as Jared shakes the hands of the guy and other girl with her.

Their names are Katie, Sarah and Paul, and they're all excited for Wimbledon to start – big tennis fans who are hoping to score tickets for the final, but at this point they're down to scouring eBay and entering competitions. Jensen asks them who they want to see in the final, and they all laugh when they say "You two, of course! Unless Andy Murray pulls it out," and Jared had forgotten how nice it is to talk to fans, especially the ones who are genuinely enthusiastic about the sport.

Paul nods between Jared and Jensen. "Guess the rumors of you guys secretly hating each other aren't true, then?"

Jared grins, bright and easy. "Nah, not at all. We're good friends, actually. We really get along."

"What about the rumors you secretly – ow!"

"Katie!" says Sarah, looking cross. "I, um, sorry – may I have your autographs? I have a pen–"

Jared tries not to frown, pasting on a huge smile instead. "Sure!" He signs her napkin, big and enthusiastic, _To Sarah_ , hands it back with a flirty wink and slow smile that won't hurt, at least to dispel whatever she might have been about to think or say. He then makes a big show of remembering that she might want Jensen's too, and begrudgingly handing the napkin over to him, but Jensen's jaw is tight and his smile is fake. At least the fans don't seem to notice anything's off, and they smile and wish them good luck and wander off.

Jensen stands up after they've gone, downs his coffee and walks away, over to lean on the railings and look out at the river.

Jared frowns, leaves a crisp note on the table, and goes to stand next to him. The sun's gone back behind the clouds and there's a wind whipping little peaks in the river, an ugly grey-green-brown.

"Hey," he says, leans next to Jensen and nudges his elbow lightly. "What's up?"

Jensen's holding his shoulders tight and his face blank, and it's clear he's pissed at something and trying to hide it. He shrugs awkwardly. "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

Jensen sighs. "I just – I don't know, man. I know we aren't – we've always said – and this is way too big a conversation to be having right now – but you didn't have to look quite so horrified at the thought that some people might see us touching."

Jared bites his lip and looks down at the railing, idly picks at the paint that's flaking off. "I wasn't – well, I mean. I just didn't want them to get, I don't know, the wrong idea–"

Jensen turns to him at that. "Except it would be the right idea. Christ! Is this always gonna–" He cuts himself off.

"Always going to – what?"

"Not exist outside of us. Be the _wrong idea_."

Jared blinks. "Well – it's not like it can really be anything else, right? I mean – not now – it's not like we can just be, whatever, open about it–"

"We can't?

Jared blinks again. He'd never considered Jensen would even _want_ to be open about this. He's even more private than Jared, and it's just – a whole other step they'd never even touched on. He decides for the most immediate approach to at least put this off. "Well, we – not right now, at the very least. It's just before a competition. We need all our concentration for the game. Yeah?" He nudges Jensen's elbow again.

Jensen relaxes a little, glances over at him, then sighs. "Yeah, I – guess you're right. Let's go back to the room."

"I thought you wanted to be a tourist today?"

"Maybe I wanna go back to bed and show you just how good the _wrong idea_ can feel." This is a low whisper as Jensen leans in abruptly close, then he's walking away and Jared fights a blush and a grin. Now that plan he can get behind.


	5. Chapter 5

Jared hauls his mind back into the game as he misses an easy return from the green kid he's up against. First round match of Wimbledon and he should be excited and on form, but instead the crowd's hissing in a surprised, pained breath _en masse_ and the kid across the net is wide-eyed, glancing over at his coach as if he wants confirmation that he's actually ahead of Jared Padalecki in a Wimbledon match.

Jensen's been acting strange recently, sure, and things are strained and silent between them in a way they've never been before, sure, and it makes Jared's stomach twist up with uncomfortable anxiety, sure – but that's no fucking excuse to be playing this poorly, for him to be this damn distracted. And if Jared's a _damn_ fucking fool enough to let this knock him off-balance enough to get kicked out of Wimbledon in the first freaking round – well, it's certainly not going to help matters.

He bounces the ball once, twice, deliberately; he closes his eyes for a second and centers himself back in his body. Mentally feels out the reach of his arms, the balance in his legs, the grip of his fingers around the racket. He breathes in that unique smell of grass, sweat and the tennis balls' faint rubber that encapsulates his favourite competition, then slams into motion, smashing the ball over the net. He does it again and again, wins the whole game in a rush of aces, and the poor kid's gone from wide-eyed in hope to wide-eyed in slightly fearful awe, and Jared pushes through to get the match easy.

But that shouldn't have happened.

Jeff fixes him with a look when he sits down with him after the match, after Jared's showered and changed. Jeff's got his notebook out like he always does when they go through each match – Jared's a visual learner, so their post-match breakdowns and pre-match planning sessions always end up with them drowning in scribbled on bits of paper with arrows and lines and sketched-out courts. The notebook's closed now, though, and Jeff is tapping on it steadily with a pen, eyebrow raised.

Jared tries not to fidget. "So," he says too loudly, "that went pretty well, pretty standard, I reckon, lot of deep court playing–"

"Jared."

Jared stops and looks up at Jeff, sighs when he realizes he's going to have to talk about it. "Yeah, I know, sorry. I was just distracted."

"Distracted? Jared, I thought for a moment there in the beginning he might _beat_ you. He's not even seeded!"

Jared tries not to pout. "He was never going to beat me–" But Jared had kind of thought that too, before he'd got himself under control and powered through. "Look, like I said, I just wasn't focused, but I _got_ myself focused, and I won easy. So let's talk about the part where I _won, easy_."

"Christ, Jared, you shouldn't have had even a moment's problem with that match. I can't help you if I can't trust that you're not going to zone out in the middle of a game with _something else on your mind_! Jesus, there shouldn't be anything more important on your mind in a Wimbledon match, Jared."

"I know," snaps Jared, irritably. He's fully aware of the fact it's less than fucking ideal to have Jensen running constantly through his thoughts when he needs to be concentrating on winning a match – and not in that fun _ooh, yay, I get to have sex with a hot guy later_ way, but in this kind of all-consuming _shit, shit, something's going wrong and I don't know how to fix it and what is he thinking and what if it all goes wrong and what if we can't fix it once it breaks what the fuck am I supposed to do then?_

Jared takes a deep breath and puts his hands flat carefully on the table, trying to calm himself.

Jeff shakes his head. "If I can't help, you're going to have to help yourself, and sort things out before your next match. Which means soon." Jeff leans forward, elbows on the table, looking concerned, and great, now Jared feels guilty on top of everything else. "Seriously, Jared, what's got you all messed up? Is it a girl? Is it something else? Is it – Jensen?"

Jared has no idea how to answer that because it's clear from Jeff's tone he doesn't think those questions are along the same lines, just – Jensen as a separate thing that Jeff knows is somehow important to Jared, but that _a girl_ is a totally viable other explanation. Fuck. Jared doesn't even feel he can say yes or no to any of that, and he hates outright lying to Jeff.

"I–" he says, then rubs a hand through his damp hair. "It's complicated."

Jeff purses his lips. "Apparently. Just – go talk to whomever you need to, whomever it is that's taking up your thoughts where they should be all focused on tennis."

Jared frowns. He's tried, but maybe it's been half-heartedly, because he knows what it might partly be about and – and he doesn't really want to have that conversation, the aborted one they'd started by the river last week, because it can't end pretty. And Jensen's been shutting down his weak attempts to ask what's up, like he doesn't want to have it, either. "He won't–"

Jeff raises his eyebrow and Jared immediately bites his lip and winces.

The obvious wince just makes Jeff's eyebrows raise farther. "So it is something to do with Jensen."

Jared shrugs awkwardly, and Jeff just keeps looking at him, eyes flicking between Jared's until Jared has to look down, because there's no way Jared's actions and reactions and Jeff's long intense look don't mean a few things are falling into place for Jeff. Jared wants to cover his face and shout and run away, and then he feels bad for feeling so weirdly embarrassed and ashamed about it – but dammit, this is why he doesn't want to be open about it, with anyone, because he is not ready to deal with this.

"Huh," Jeff just says after a while.

"Huh?" Jared parrots back, not looking at Jeff, staring down at his shoelaces and feeling abruptly six years old.

"Jared," Jeff says gently, and Jared does look up at him at that. "Go talk to him." Jeff's eyes – and words – are firm but kind, and Jared feels all sorts of relief shudder through him.

"I – thanks," he says, awkwardly.

Jeff shrugs. "Just – get this sorted out. For the sake of your own sanity, and – well, happiness, if tennis isn't enough."

"It's enough!" protests Jared.

"Then prove it, because if this festers any more, keeps fucking you up like this, you can kiss any second chance at that cup goodbye. And Jared? I want you to win. But I want you to be happy, too. So. Go talk to him."

"Right," says Jared, "yeah." His relief and gratitude twist up into nerves.

\--

Jensen meets him near the gardens, and Jared scopes out the area carefully, makes sure it's deserted, before pulling Jensen behind a high hedge and kissing him, getting lost for a moment in the softness of Jensen's lips against his. He stops himself before he can get too into it, though, pulls back slightly; then there's a noise from the other side of the hedge and he reacts without thinking, shoving Jensen away a good few steps away and looking around.

A flock of birds rises chattering from a tree close by, and Jared looks back at Jensen, whose face is blank and drawn. "Yeah, careful, Jared. The birds'll tell all the newspapers."

Jared bites his lip. That look on Jensen's face – that closed-off, distant look, like how he used to look at him before, except there's not even anger there, there's _nothing_ – makes his stomach feel twisted and unhappy, makes everything seem off. "Jensen–" he tries, but everything just kind of stops on his tongue, helpless and stuck, and Jensen looks away. Jared tries not to panic. "Jensen – talk to me, man."

Jensen does look back at him, then. He nods, looking less blank but no happier. "Not here, man." He walks past Jared, heads towards their hotel, and Jared follows, wordlessly.

The silence between them is heavy when Jensen finally closes the door behind them.

They both look towards the bed, because that's what they _do_ when they get on their own at a tournament, and there's no small amount of tension that springs up, then, and it doesn't help.

"Shit," says Jensen. "We gonna have this fight, then?"

There's pretty much nothing Jared wants less, but he also can't stand things being like they are, and he also can't stay this fucked up about it.

"We kind of have to. You've – we've been weird since we got here, Jensen, and it's fucking me up. I can't concentrate, I nearly lost my fucking _first round match_ because I'm thinking about it. I can't–"

"Oh, yeah. Can't have this affecting your game."

"I can't! And it's not just – we need to sort this out. Can't we – be like we were?"

"I was trying to be."

"Yeah, well, fantastic job. You barely look at me! I feel like you're pissed at me!"

Jensen looks angry then, raises his arms. "Why are you so goddamn scared, Jared?"

Jared curls his hands into fists. "Because I'm sorry if I don't want the world to know about something this private. What, you _want_ this to all come out now? You were fine with it before! Being just us! Why does it need to be any more?"

"I don't want it to come out right now, yeah, but – you just looked so damn horrified at thinking that someone might see you, know you're fucking a _guy_ –"

"It's not like that."

"No? What's it like, then?"

"I'm not – ashamed. I just – fuck. Why can't we just keep going like we were?" He's practically pleading, he knows, but he feels like he's trying to pull them back from a fucking cliff-edge that there's no need for them to be at, but Jensen won't stop shoving them towards.

"What, sneaking around like teenagers? Look, I'm not – it was awesome. It was – kind of amazing. You know that. But I can't – I can't keep doing something that's never going to be more than it is. Not when it's starting to – mean something to me. I'm too old for this shit."

"It means something to me, too, man." Their eyes catch and Jared feels almost panicked. "But–"

Jensen looks away immediately.

"But – Jensen – it's not just – this! There's so much more to think about – our careers, and families – and not just our games, but longevity. You _know_ image is important – what about after I fuck up my knee one too many times, when we gotta be like – Bjorn Borg, rely on sponsorship to pay the goddamn bills–"

* * *

Jensen wants to punch Jared. Sponsorship, careers, all this goddamn shit that sounds more like an excuse than anything else. "Maybe I was hoping this could be a bit more important than tennis, for once!" he shouts, half-regretting it because he feels vulnerable putting it out there like that, but whatever. If he can't be honest right now – when it might be the only thing to get through – when can he be?

He shakes his head. "I don't get it, Jared. You were the one so gungho about this before – saying we didn't need to just fuck, saying we could be more. What the fuck changed?"

Jared rubs a hand over his face and doesn't say anything.

Jensen nods. "Because that was before it all became real, right? Fuck – Jared, you taught me that things don't always go like I expect and I should _let_ them, and I did, and this has turned out to be _unexpectedly_ one of the best things that's ever happened to me."

Jared flinches at that and keeps looking down.

Jensen digs his nails into his palm. "So why can't you let go, now? Let go of that fear, because that's all it is, man. This, tennis – it's details. We could be beyond that. We could be – hell, we could be forever, if you'd give it a chance."

"I want that! I _do_ , Jensen, I – but why now? Why do you want this to be everywhere?"

"It's not about now. I'm not saying I want anything to change right now! I don't want to suddenly start waving the flag, doing interviews about our epic gay love, whatever you've got in your head – it's not about doing it now. It's that I'm looking forward, to maybe one day, and you're shutting it down. You're saying _never_. That you're never going to take the risk of making this real. That there's always going to be something you'll claim is more important."

Jared tightens his lips. "Excuse me if I don't want to fuck up my life. Risk my career. You've had your chance at this, I haven't! I've got more in me. I don't want to lose that."

That actually kind of hurts. Jensen just shrugs. "That's my whole point. While tennis is still more important to you, while you're still fucking terrified of letting anything _else_ mean something, I – I can't do this. I'm not saying you have to risk your career right now! You're just using that as a smokescreen because you're scared. And while you are, while you can't tell me you want this to be anything more, I – I can't."

Jared's head goes up from where he'd been looking at the floor. "Are you – are you breaking up with me?"

"You sound like a fucking teenager." Jensen shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe. I can't – compete with what you're expecting your life to be, if you're not going to let it change. I don't fit in that. This is your call, right now."

"Don't fucking lay it on me! You're the one who can't keep hold of a good thing when we've got it–" Jared cuts himself off, breathing hard, and there's so much anger and fear in his face that it's hard to look at because all Jensen wants to do is fucking _comfort_ him, tell him he's better than all the stupid stuff he's scared of. But right now, _Jensen_ is part of what he's scared of, and there's nothing more he can say.

"You gotta make a choice here. It's pretty fucking simple."

Jared takes a step forward, then hesitates, looks around as if he can already see everyone's faces and words, the judgement that he's so clearly scared of, all that stuff that doesn't matter to Jensen and it really fucking stings that it does matter to Jared. That Jensen isn't enough to make it unimportant, the way Jared _was_ enough to make it seem unimportant to Jensen.

Jared stops, presses his knuckles into his eyes, lets out a harsh laugh that sounds like nothing more than a sob. "I guess I can't do it."

"Wait–"

Jared looks up, eyes wide, shaking his head. "I _can't_." He's taking a stumbling step backwards, then he's _gone_. Walked out, just like that.

Jensen stands there for a moment. He hadn't – hadn't really expected Jared to really leave him here. Like it's that easy to shut them down, to put an end to it.

He moves without thinking, swinging around to punch his fist hard into the wall, doesn't even stop to think he's gotta play with that hand; there's a satisfying bloom of pain that rockets up his arm and he yells, only half at the pain. He rubs his other hand almost unconsciously over his chest, because it fucking _hurts_ , this hollowed-out ache.

There's a pounding on the door, frantic and loud and making Jensen jump; he pulls the door open with his sore hand, curling his bruised knuckles tight around the handle, and of course it's Jared the other side, looking wild and huge and impossibly tempting.

His face is drawn and upset, though, and he just shakes his head as Jensen opens his mouth – he pushes forward into the room, kicks the door closed behind him and _yanks_ Jensen in towards him into a fierce kiss. The immediate heat of Jared's mouth against his, the sharp feel of his teeth digging through, the strength of his hands as they push over Jensen's back and down to grab at his ass, tug him in closer – it doesn't calm that ache, it just sets it alight, something desperate and crazy and Jensen kisses back just as violently.

He tries to say the same things with his lips and teeth and hands he said with words before – _look at this, at us, can't you see, can't you give in, I could love you so much if you'd let me_ – but he can't read Jared's answers. He can feel the need pouring off Jared, but not what it means.

The don't speak – they don't need, to, for this, because they know each other so well here, pulling their clothes off among biting kisses, moving like it's choreographed, like it's been marked out for them. It makes it hurt more, but god, it's as good as ever when Jared pushes him down, puts those big hands on his ass and slowly spreads him, cool air then hot tongue over his clenching hole.

Jensen fists his hands in the sheets, pushes his face into the cool pillows and just lets it happen, lets the searing pleasure of Jared's wet tongue and long fingers sliding into him just take everything over, turn his brain off and let his body take over. Jared stretches him all fast and wet and eager until Jensen's shaking for it, cock stiff and needy trapped against the sheets. He can hear Jared's hitching breaths behind him as Jared kneels up, hooks his arm under Jensen's hips and pulls him up to hands and knees to slip his big cock over Jensen's wet, opened hole. The room's grey and dim and there's a light rain spattering at the windows, so Jensen closes his eyes tight and watches instead the fireworks spreading over his eyelids as Jared pushes into him, long, thick inches.

He moans it out, bears down hard and lets Jared slide in all the way smooth and easy, so fucking good.

"Hard," he says, and it's the first – only – word he says. Jared groans out something that sounds half like a sob, and he does it – he fucks Jensen hard, fucking him so they're skidding on the bed and Jensen has to scrabble for the headboard; Jared fucks him so hard the bed thunks against the wall and both of them cry out on each thrust, sharp violent pleasure shuddering through Jensen's body in waves.

His heart _pounds_ in his chest, sweat prickling across his body and his limbs feel weak and heavy but he keeps himself up, won't touch his cock because if this is – if this is – god, he wants it to last.

The intensity drags him back to a year ago, and it fucking figures that they say the really important things through sex, through their bodies, this hard and good. All the things they couldn't say – _I want you so much it makes me crazy, I want you I want you I need you_ – but if that was the start of something then maybe this is the end.

Jensen screws his eyes shut again from where he'd been staring at his reddened hand gripping the headboard, and loses himself back in it, in the deep amazing pushes of Jared's cock deep into him, in the whole-body jarring shoves, in the sounds spilling from Jared's mouth.

Jared's hands are curled tight over his hips, pulling him back into each thrust, and Jensen can feel the sharp points of his fingernails even through everything else. The incongruously slow drag of Jared's thumb, gentle over his skin. Everything tightens up abruptly in his throat, rising like he wants to cry or scream or–

"Jared–" he manages, then oh god, fuck, he's coming, crying out with it as he streaks come all over the bed beneath them, thick pulses of it pulled out from somewhere deep.

Jared curls himself right over Jensen, one arm going back under Jensen's hips to keep him up, and his hair is falling damp on Jensen's shoulders and his teeth are sudden and sharp on the curve of his neck, muffling the yell as Jared comes. Jensen can feel the thick jerking and pulsing of Jared's cock inside him, doesn't want it to stop, clenches himself around Jared and Jared moans, keeps rolling his hips until he makes a whimper that's almost pained and pulls out slowly.

Jensen shivers and falls forward onto the bed, his come smeared on the sheets under him cool and sticky on his chest; Jared's come hot and strange where it's starting to dribble out from his ass. He's tired and used and feeling good but still breathless with a weird kind of grief. He's covered in the both of them, in him-and-Jared, inside and out, and it feels both appropriate and stifling. He wants a shower.

Jared collapses next to him, panting, and Jensen turns his head so he's looking at him. Jared turns his head too, then shifts over for a brief, hard kiss before he looks back at the ceiling.

Jensen licks over his swollen lips. "Jared–" he says, then stops. He's not going beg. He's not. He's not going to give Jared that much goddamn power. He knows this isn't just him, and whatever happens, whatever he wants to happen, he fucking refuses to make this about Jared giving in to him or not, rejecting his pleas or not. It's gotta be Jared's own choice. Now that he's made his, he's _not_ gonna beg. "Good luck," he says instead. "In the rest of the tournament."

Jared looks at him again, then moves to sit on the edge of the bed, drops his head into his hands for a moment. Then he looks up and over at Jensen. "Yeah," he says, voice gravelly. "Yeah, you too." Then he collects his clothes and leaves again.

\--

Jensen plays fantastically in his next few matches; it's like he's some sort of tennis _robot_ , won't let a thought cross his mind unless it's about the game, about spin and shots and angles. Jim's a frustrated mix of pleased and worried, and it would be kind of amusing, except Jensen's not really up to finding anything too hilarious right now.

"I'm gonna kill him," says Jim in the middle of a sit-down planning session.

Jensen looks up. "Who?" he says.

Jim shakes his head. "I'm not stupid, Jensen. This has got something to do with Padalecki. There's only so many things that would fuck you up like this that I wouldn't know about. Also I just talked about the possibility of playing against him before this competition's through and you froze the fuck up."

Jensen sighs. He was hoping he'd been subtle, but Jim knows him pretty well. "Yeah, well."

"I knew this friendship was a bad idea from the start."

Jensen has to snort a little at that. Because, friendship? Right.

Jim's eyes narrow. "My imagination's going crazy here, kid, and while whatever the drama is may have turned you into some super – even _more_ super – player, it's distracting _me_. And you don't want that."

Jensen figures he should at least follow the example that was the core of the problem with Jared, and he looks Jim frankly in the eye. "I was – am? Am," he decides, "in love with him."

There's a pause and Jim's eyes go wide – though it had obviously been one of the scenarios on his mind. "Christ, Jensen. I didn't – Christ. He's–?"

Jensen has to smile a little. "Well, he is with me. Was." Then he sighs, rubs a hand over his face. "Just – not quite okay enough with it to want to make it anything – more." He shakes his head, feeling weird about trying to explain this to anyone else, but Jim deserves to know the basics. Jensen doesn't want to keep it all secretive – it gives the whole mess a power he doesn't want to, because otherwise it could destroy him. "It was gonna end at some point, if he was never going to want to take it further, so I guess I should be grateful the worst is over with, need to start getting my head back on track. It's just – being _here_ doesn't help."

Jim frowns, then his eyes widen further. "It was – here?"

Jensen nods. "Last year. The start, anyway."

"You both just won your quarter-finals today. The way both of you are playing, you shouldn't have too much of a problem with your semi-finals. Which means we got a hell of a likelihood here of history repeating, of you two facing each other in the final again." Jim tilts his head, as if he's expecting Jensen to pour his heart about how that makes him feel.

Jensen just shrugs. What else is he supposed to say? "Yeah."

Jim twists his mouth. "You–"

"Jim," interrupts Jensen. "I'm – well. I'm not totally okay, but I can't – I wanna get through this competition, okay? Win if I can, but just – get through it. It's fucked up, but I'm gonna be better when it's all done. And if I can win, it'll make it that much better, so let's get me through the next match, okay?"

Jim looks at him a moment longer, then darts a hand out to squeeze at Jensen's shoulder, before taking it back and getting right back into strategy talk, like they'd never discussed Jensen's whole doomed love affair with his rival. He actually feels obscurely better, now.

\--

No one's surprised when Jared and Jensen both win their semi-finals, and what few tickets are left floating around eBay and ticket touts suddenly _rocket_ in price. Jensen's reminded of the fans they met by the river. He wonders if they managed to get any.

He pulls open the curtains in his room and squints against the early morning sun that flashes in – it's been grey and chilly and on-off drizzling rain for the past few days, fucking up the schedule, but apparently nature's got her own respect for Wimbledon when it matters because it's the morning of the final and it's clear and beautiful.

He looks out at the unbroken blue sky and thinks with a shocking clarity about how he's going to be facing Jared across the court in just a few hours, and it seems too impossible to be real. It'll be the closest they've even been to each other since their last frantic fuck. They haven't even spoken since, and Jensen feels weighed down by the past year and the horribly unfinished emotions between them, but he's expected to step out there and _play_ against him? His palms feel clammy and his stomach tight and unhappy. He shuts the curtains again, gets himself under control.

There's more than Jared waiting out there for him – there's the trophy, there's this competition that he wants selfishly to hold onto, and there's – if he can get through today – a whole new section of his life that he'll finally be able to concentrate on adjusting to. There's a whole host of reasons why today can be good, and he pushes down the dread, wraps it in a tense little ball and shoves it to the back of his head.

He has interviews to do this morning, and warm-ups and stretching, last-minute intensive planning with Jim, and the last thing he's allowed to do is to fall back into bed and let the world go by without him, so he sighs and drags himself into the shower.

It's an unusual and uncomfortable sort of torture that every single thing about this day shapes up to be about Jared, and he hasn't even seen the guy yet. He has to talk about him in the interviews, again enthuse how they're friends, how he's looking forward to playing him again; he has to think about Jared's unique and formidable game in detail with Jim, picturing it vividly. How unfairly good and alive and beautiful Jared looks when he's playing.

The deja vu is bothering him, distracting him, and every time he imagines standing across court from Jared, their two proud figures facing off on his beloved Centre Court, he can just remember how it felt last year, can imagine how it'll feel this year; through it all there's a unending, unchanging, helpless pull of _want_ that he can't turn off any more than he can stop himself breathing.

And yet – he's looking forward to playing him again. If nothing else, they play great tennis together, and he knows from experience that a certain kind of tension between them is only likely to enhance it. Even if it hurts, even if it's going to half kill him, it's going to be intense and fast and so much fucking better than this thick, unpleasant limbo of waiting. He can get out there, get it all _out_ , then cut it all off clean. Play, and move on.

\--

"And don't forget, he's got a strong backhand, so be prepared, and lead him towards the net when you can–"

"Fuck's sake, Jim! I know this shit, better than _you_ , okay? I know what I'm doing."

Jim frowns for a moment, then his face softens like he's remembers what Jensen's _going through_ , and that's even worse. Jensen rolls his eyes. "Just leave me alone for a second. There's nothing you can do right now, so let me–" he waves a hand around. "Please."

There's a bustle and rush all around them in what Jensen thinks of as _backstage_ , in the rooms behind Centre Court, but Jim's making Jensen feel more crowded than all the people around. He's grateful, of course he is, but he can't deal with Jim right now.

Jim goes, and as Jensen follows with his gaze, he sees, a head taller than everyone else, Jared.

Jared meets his eyes and it feels like a physical blow. Jensen has to curl his hands into fists to stop himself shuddering. Jared's opening his mouth as if he wants to say something, but he's too far away and there are people everywhere, and what could he possibly say seconds before the match? Then his head turns and he's dragged off by his coach, and Jensen won't let himself hope or wonder and indulge in that insistent pain in his chest; he focuses back on his racket, tests its weight and hefts his bag on his shoulder, because in seconds, he'll be out there on the court. His heart thumps in his chest and beyond the mess that Jared leaves in his head, he can feel that tantalising edge of pure clean excitement he gets before a match, a big one, especially here at Wimbledon. This is his fifth Wimbledon final, and each year it might be his last. He's not going to let Jared ruin it for him. He grips a hand around the strap of his bag, and for a second feels a low flash of ache from his old-bruised knuckles; he lets the pain ground him rather than remind him. He starts towards the doors, because it's nearly time.

He's out first, and Jared's somewhere behind him, but for a glorious moment as Jensen steps into the open air, he forgets that.

The crowd is screaming, cheering, deafeningly loud, and the sun is bright, making the grass glow vibrant and green around the edges, but for the worn parts along the baseline and where the ball boys and girls crouch by the posts. His new white shorts and polo shirt feel fresh and smart, and in them, _he_ feels new, hopeful and excited. He loves this competition.

He can sense when Jared walks onto the court behind him; the pitch of the crowd increases and the atmosphere snaps into something electric. He can't stop himself from turning to look at Jared, catch his gaze with a raised eyebrow as if to say, _This is crazy, huh_? with a little hand movement to encompass the place, the crowd, the noise, the sheer size of this whole thing. Jared looks surprised for a moment, then grateful; then he smirks very slightly, and Jensen can practically hear him say, _Well, of course; we're awesome_.

Jensen has to look away before he can think about how fucking familiar Jared's face is to him; before he can puncture this bubble of more-than-okay he's got going on.

They walk to their baselines, and each step is almost impossible, closer to starting the last chapter of the year this competition has bracketed; it's too small an action to feel so big after the year Jensen has had. That _they've_ had.

The umpire's calling for quiet, ineffectual against the energy of the crowd, but when Jared and Jensen stop looking at their rackets and around the court and just simply meet each other's eyes over the net, the crowd falls silent of its own accord. It's like the world stops for a long, tense moment, just hanging before this starts, this which could be the most important match in Jensen's life, against someone who could've been the most important person. He bites his lip, breaks the stare with an effort, looks down to palm the match's first ball, grips it firm in his hand, and starts the match.

The ball arcs gracefully into the sky, then Jensen slams it hard, slicing it across the net – it's a good, strong serve, but Jared returns it easily, and they smash right into a frantic rally. The tone and energy level is like it was last year, and Jensen's mind clears, his limbs buzzing with adrenaline as they play, and he's so grateful that it's good that he could cry; they haven't fucked this up, at least. That he can take the memory of this match away and know that it was good.

Jensen struggles to hold on to his serve in the first game, because – Jared's _good_. He knew he was, of course, he always has been, he's a breathtaking player, but he's better. He's _better_ , still getting better, an obvious improvement even from the amazing match he played last year; he's smoother and tighter and smarter with each game. It's one thing to see it and another to be fighting against it on the court. Because Jensen is fighting, and he's struggling, and Jared takes the first game.

Jensen pants and grips his racket tighter and he sways carefully from foot to foot, waiting on Jared's serve, and he can't help his mouth pulling up at the corners, because this is what he wanted: a game so good and difficult he can lose himself in it. He steps it up a gear, not that there's much left to pull out; he plays the best he can, matching Jared's power and still strategizing. Wimbledon's a unique competition in all senses – even the grass is atypical of a grass court, slower than others, and Jensen has spent hours and hours over the years honing his style and strategy specifically for this competition.

And this time, he can see Jared has, too – can see the subtle differences in his game clearly designed around the conditions here, and he's impressed; his own tactics to push other players towards the weakness he can more easily exploit on the grass here are met with just as effective an adaptation and return, and Jensen has to fight hard.

It's a heady distraction, the carefully harnessed power of Jared's game: the explosive smashes of his returns that go exactly where he wants them to, the carefully released power in his wide shoulders and long arms, the deft movements of his long legs taking him all over the court. It's a distraction Jensen can't afford, and he won't be able to stop it if he lets himself look for more than a second at the picture Jared makes in his crisp white clothes, the stretch of the shirt over his shoulders, the lines of clean white against his tan skin over his forehead, across his strangely delicate wrists drawing the eye down to his huge, capable hands – Jensen shakes his head, and packs it all away. He might take it out one day, for some sort of masochistic nostalgia about just how fucking perfectly beautiful Jared is to watch here in his element. For now, Jensen throws himself into the game.

He does look enough to notice that Jared's _staring_ at him, intensely, after each point, and it makes goosebumps shiver periodically and prickly over his back; it's a relief when they're playing because then Jared's eyes are on the ball and Jensen's racket, not intent on his face.

Jared breaks Jensen's serve and though Jensen nearly claws it back, Jared hangs onto the advantage enough to grab the first set.

Jensen fairly collapses into his chair in the tiny break between sets, drinks down water, rubs a towel across his face to blot the sweat, and through it all, feels Jared's eyes intent on the side of his head. It's not entirely unpleasant, because it's _Jared_ , but it's – it's – god. Jensen's too focused to even think about it, about him, because if he unravels, this whole thing could be lost. Neither of them deserve this match being anything less than spectacular – that's what he's holding on to right now, this match, because that's all he has control over. That's all that can be important.

* * *

Jensen won't look at him, though that's probably fair enough, and though they were close before, they weren't quite telepathic. It hurts even though he deserves it, because Jensen thinks – god, Jensen thinks he doesn't care enough about them, that this match matters more to him than the man he's playing against. Right now, in their second Wimbledon final, it's hard to separate the two, because this whole experience is Jensen and tennis and love and competition and _everything_ all rolled together, and it makes Jared feel so fucking alive like nothing on its own has quite done before.

Except for how Jensen won't _look_ at him.

There's little reprieve as they start the second set, and the roaring of the crowd fills Jared up, makes him feel like he's floating above them, the atmosphere even more insane than last year. The history between him and Jensen, the fact they're here again – it seems impossible to Jared, except for how nothing is more real than how he feels when he's unfolding and stretching up to serve across the space between them, reaching out to Jensen the only way he can right now.

\--

Jeff had called him an idiot, and Jared had just blinked. "What?"

"Whatever you said, it clearly wasn't the right thing. Unless he–"

"No, no, he didn't – he wanted–" Jared had sighed and put his head down in his hands. "Can we just talk tennis? That's the one thing I feel much better about not fucking up."

"Jared," Jeff had said, and waited for Jared to look back up at him. "Sometimes – and listen carefully, because believe you me, I am never going to say this again – there are things more important than tennis."

Jared had shaken his head. "But it's – he's, we're, sure, we're great, but this isn't just tennis, it's my career. It's my future. It's my _life_."

Jeff had started shaking his head immediately. "Tennis is a lot, but it's not your life. Your _life_ is your life."

Jared had raised an eyebrow as if to say, _Well, duh_ , but Jeff had frowned at him. "I'm being serious. Tennis is a part of your life. But don't let it ruin something you'll regret for the _whole_ of your life."

Jared hadn't really thought about what he'd said, not really – because Jared's nothing if not stubborn, and he'd been _right_ , dammit, that this was pointless, was too soon, wasn't what they were about, and why did they need to change something so good? Why was Jensen so bull headedly, selfishly ruining something so fucking amazing? Was it too much to ask to stay as they were? Change for change's sake was a waste of time and energy, and they didn't _need_ any more than they had. They didn't, and they wouldn't, and it was just – pointless.

He hadn't thought about it any more, until two days later when he'd woken up, looked at the ceiling, and out of fucking nowhere broken into wracking sobs that had shaken his body, tight and breaking in his chest.

Realising he was in love with Jensen had made a few things clearer, and abruptly everything hurt a _lot_ more, but it was easier, too, _because_ it was clearer. Jared was probably an idiot, and Jensen was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him or ever would; if he got the trophy, it wouldn't mean anything if he'd lose Jensen in the process. He got it, now – that they could be more, that there needed to be the _chance_ for them to be more, and that all the things Jared was scared of weren't as important as he'd believed.

The thought of that – of truly losing Jensen – made everything sharp and bright and obvious. It washed away his worry, the thought of the shame and awkward embarrassment, left him feeling raw and fragile but _purer_.

Like all the bullshit got stripped away and all that was left, all that really mattered, was Jensen.

\--

Facing him across the court now is the first chance he's even had to be near Jensen; it's been so busy and crazy – and fine, scary – that he hasn't managed to just talk to him, fix this, and now all he can do is play, play the sort of match Jensen deserves. He's playing well, powerful and controlled and _in_ control, guiding the games, and his energy just keeps building. He lets everything push him on, all the crazy emotions and want and apologies and love that's filling him up; Jared lets it fuel him, drive him, and it works. He's playing his best, and Jeff's probably wetting himself in happiness, and yeah – everything else aside, it feels good to be playing like this.

Jensen's amazing, of course, matching him all the way, and they battle for each game. Jensen's fucking fantastic serve gives him a game forty-love, but Jared holds grimly onto his own serve after that, won't let Jensen take it, and snatches the tiebreaker with an ace of his own, two sets up to Jensen's love so far.

Their eyes do meet in the next break, and Jared has to suppress a shiver, because it's just a flash, but Jensen's look is so fucking intense, and the sense memories it brings back make his knees want to give out, and he can't afford to start thinking about that now.

He feels a little off-balance as they start the third set, though, and that plus the fact that Jared knows no _way_ would Jensen let Jared take it in straight sets means that Jensen powers right ahead. Jared half wants to just stand back and _watch_ him, but Jensen needs Jared's challenge to play like this and Jared's more than happy to give it to him. Jensen drags him forward reluctantly to the net and gets him with an overhead, and Jared's so fucking impressed at the almost obvious traps Jensen lays and how you can't help but get pulled into them. He's never known strategy like it before in a player, to this level, and it's beautiful to watch and be a part of even as Jensen climbs ahead.

Jared recognizes parts of Jensen's game but some parts manage to be new to him; Jensen's adaptable and sneaky, and Jared could study him and play him for years and never get all the nuances of his ability. He leaves Jared in awe, always has, and it's a goddamn privilege to be playing against him – and it has been every time.

It's not like Jared isn't adaptable and talented himself, though. Their eyes meet again, a flash, as Jared watches and _learns_ ; he lets Jensen drag him to the net again and then kills the ball with a smash that Jensen has no hope of returning, and he hears the crowd cheer. He can't help but grin and Jensen raises an eyebrow, and it feels almost like things are okay between them, until Jensen looks away again. Shit.

Jared double faults, _twice_ , growls at himself and take a ten second pause to pull himself back together – he does, of course, he's a professional, but Jensen tears through the rest of the game breaking Jared's serve easy, and from there he gets the set – not quite easily, the final game slips into a maddening deuce advantage-swapping that lasts a good ten minutes – but he's more than back in the competition.

Jared _tries_ , he does, to at least have a single word with Jensen in the break, a whisper as they pass each other, at least a meaningful look that Jensen will return and _understand_ something of what Jared wants to say; but he can't. He just looks at Jensen, loses himself in imagining how that warm, sweat damp skin would feel under his fingers; in the strong beauty of Jensen's profile as he stares intently down at his racket.

Watches as he gets up, heads back to the baseline, racket lightly balanced in hand. Not looking at Jared.

He isn't sure what he was planning on saying, if he'd managed to grab the chance, just – something to let Jensen know he's thought about it and he's made his choice and he's _not_ what Jensen said, he's _not_ too scared of this, of letting it be something. He doesn't know what he'd expect Jensen to do, though – forgive him just like that? Sit down and talk it out in the middle of a Grand Slam final? Kiss him in front of the crowd, the press, God and the world? Right.

He walks back to his position, looks straight at Jensen across the net until Jensen looks back, and he says what he can with a look. Jensen drops his eyes for a second, and Jared remembers he has to start this; he has to serve, get this closer to ending, because maybe _then_ he can fix this.

The sun is still out, mostly, patches of light cloud slipping over it occasionally, but right now as Jared stretches up to serve, tosses the ball up and stares up into the sky following the yellow speck of the ball, the sun is warm on his face. He pulls the moment out, waiting, waiting, waiting until it seems impossible that the ball's still in he air, trusting his instincts to the last split second before hurling his arm around; the impact of the ball right in the center of the racket is firm and satisfying, the arc and speed perfect, and he knows, he _knows_ he's good enough. Good enough for Jensen, good enough for Wimbledon, good enough to win, and he finally, finally, _wants_ it. He wants Jensen, he wants their future, and he wants this goddamn trophy.

He uses everything he has, everything he's learned – from his family, from Jeff, from growing up watching, from pushing out his own boundaries and strengths and weaknesses through the years of training, what he's learned from _Jensen_ ; he uses everything his body has, everything his love of the game gives him and everything his love of _Jensen_ can add to it. He can feel the slow building ache in his shoulders, the burn in his arms, the slow, distant twinge in his knees, and he embraces it all and keeps going.

Jensen's keeping up, though, matching Jared for energy, for points; they're both sweating, both grunting on the hard returns, both blotting their foreheads with their wristbands in each pause, and Jensen's hair is dark little strands against his forehead until he pushes it irritably up and off.

Jared gradually pulls ahead. He wins his own service game forty-love with some smart volleys and a couple mistakes from Jensen; he then breaks Jensen's serve fifteen-forty and realizes he might – he could – he can do this.

Jensen's fingers tighten on this racket after he loses his serve, but then Jensen looks up at Jared, eyes clear and firm, and Jared doesn't need to worry about bad feelings – not about this. This is earned.

It's familiar, this pure, good feeling of pulling ahead, slowly and strongly, being _better_ than your opponent and to think that this is _Jensen Ackles_ he's beating is amazing. But it's not without its own slight tinge of regret – that this is the man that out of nowhere he fell in _love_ with, and everything else aside, he can't be happy he's beating him on a personal level. All his previous wins – and nearly all competitive athletes' wins, he'd wager – are that heady mix of satisfaction and shameful but undeniable schadenfreude – at _beating_ someone, making them lose.

Now it comes only from within, from his own satisfaction in his own game, his own pride in his talent – and he's reminded of Jeff months ago telling him that's where it should all come from. Inside, where the truest things lie, anyway. It's pretty appropriate that Jensen's making him realize this. Jensen always seems to be making him better, in all the ways that matter.

Of course it's not over until it's over. Jensen fights back, wins his fifth game of the set to meet Jared's and then the crucial last game goes into tiebreak. It's like last year, the tense hush in the air a shock of deja vu as the win comes tantalisingly closer – except back then, whoever won the game won the _trophy_. Here Jared's two points away from a win, and Jensen's two points away from a whole other set, and the tiredness in Jensen shoulders and set determination in his jaw make it obvious he's more than fully aware.

Jensen serves, graceful as ever; his wide shoulders and powerful legs framed by the white shirt and shorts, the pale skin of his neck looking soft and warm against the white open collar of his shirt.

Jared tears his eyes from Jensen to the ball and pumps the return back, forcing power into his tired arms; Jensen misses, sliding down onto one knee before leaping back up, ready and balanced; but Jared can tell he's tiring more on that side.

They get into a surprisingly simple rally in the next point, Jared's Championship point; and he doesn't even let himself think about it, because he won't _allow_ himself to second guess this; it wouldn't be fair to either of them. He shifts his weight and angles the return, gets Jensen to backhand it and forces him to lean right into his weak side to return the next shot that Jared powers back across the net – Jensen leans, falters, and hits the ball back.

It goes wild, as Jared had thought, landing outside the lines.

"Out," screams the closest linesperson, excitably, but it's blatant to everyone because the crowd's already screaming – and like that, Jared's won.

He drops his head down for a second, just to take a deep breath, then looks up – he doesn't fall to his knees or even drop his racket, he can't think beyond watching Jensen. He can't look anywhere else, not at the umpire officially announcing, " _Game, set, match, Padalecki_ ," like he's fantasized about for years; not at the screaming crowd on its feet yelling for him; not Jeff, so proud; not anywhere but Jensen.

He won Wimbledon. He did what he's dreamed of since he started this crazy journey, when he was a kid with a too-big racket clutched in his chubby hand, and it's good. It's wonderful. But the reason he's smiling right now is because Jensen is looking at him, and Jared's made up his mind.

Jensen looks steadily at him, nods a little, and his face slowly opens and relaxes, as Jared keeps looking at him.

They move towards the net at the same time, and Jared just grins again as he grips Jensen's hand in his.

"Thank you," he says.

Jensen tilts his head and there's hope somewhere behind his eyes, but he's still wary. Jared doesn't want him to ever have to be wary or cautious about them, because it's suddenly the surest thing in his life.

"You played well," Jensen says.

Jared nods, and tightens his grip on Jensen's hand. "You played amazingly. It's an honor. Jensen," he says, and moves his thumb over the skin on Jensen's hand, still gripping tight. Jensen doesn't pull away from the hold, and his own mouth turns up at the corners.

"Yeah?" he says, simply, and his smile grows, slowly.

Jared grins back, smiles so wide it hurts, and it's not the win, it's not the screaming crowd, it's not the promise of that cup – it's the crinkles in the corners of Jensen's eyes, it's the freckles over his nose, it's the way their gazes catch, Jensen's curious and still more hopeful; it's the way Jensen's neck flushes even pinker than it already is from the exertion when Jared pulls him in close 'til there's nothing but the net between them, heat from Jensen's body bleeding against his own. It makes Jared's heart race even faster than the game, the win, the triumph ever could.

"I realized something," he says quietly, and doesn't let Jensen go. He drops his racket and put his other hand on Jensen's face, all finally calm and determined and happy.

Jensen raises his eyebrows, still smiling like he won something, too. "You did?"

"Yeah," says Jared. "You were right. This can be forever."

He pulls Jensen in with that careful hand on his cheek and kisses him. The noise of the crowd stops and then explodes; he hears the cameras and shouts and knows he's taken a step here he can't undo, and all he can feel is the simple happiness of Jensen's lips against his, the familiar heat and smell and shape of Jensen pressed close to him, and nothing else matters in the world.

  


  
THE END.


End file.
